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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169481">Anchor of Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonBinaryStars/pseuds/NonBinaryStars'>NonBinaryStars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Compass [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Temeraire - Naomi Novik</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Jane Roland has no more fucks to give about men's feelings, Multi, Nobody is Okay during Blood of Tyrants, Tharkay and Roland are actually really solid metamours tbh, Tharkay is still kind of a radical pleasure activist, affirmative consent, content warning: brief descriptions of torture, content warning: implied past self-harm, content warning: physical incapacitation and the effects of torture, heads up some chapters have reference sections because of who i am as a person, is it a Praise Kink? or is sex just more fun when everyone feels Validated and Affirmed?, it’s Not Gay™ if you’re At War, it’s Not Romance™ if it’s In A Tent, like Laurence has had So Much Head Trauma, or most of League of Dragons for that matter, period-typical heterosexism / heteronormativity, probably both/and if we’re being honest, still not angst just adults trying to cope, turns out Physical Intimacy involves way more than Just Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:22:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>40,559</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonBinaryStars/pseuds/NonBinaryStars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“He thought of a blue sky and a sparkling sea, and heard himself and Laurence explaining to Temeraire that such friendships must be treated as precious jewels, closely guarded.”</p><p>Tharkay and Laurence’s story from Tharkay’s perspective, from Crucible of Gold til partway through League of Dragons. Sequel to Gravity of Empire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jane Roland &amp; Tenzing Tharkay - Relationship, Temeraire &amp; Tenzing Tharkay, William Laurence &amp; Temeraire &amp; Tenzing Tharkay, William Laurence &amp; Tenzing Tharkay, William Laurence/Tenzing Tharkay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Compass [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Matak Rajya</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hello! We are here! This is happening! </p><p>The song I had on repeat while editing this chapter was obviously Somewhere Out There from Fievel: An American Tail. </p><p>And now, in the grand tradition of long intimate letters that aren't QUITE gay enough to completely eliminate plausible deniability, I give you...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>The Matak Rajya ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or,</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Our men show their work </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dear Tenzing,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have been to the Cobbler.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Being accustomed to maintaining Correspondence across great Time and Distance, I am in the habit of writing my Letters in Stages, for I do not know when I might next send Post, and if I wait to start writing until I am offered the Opportunity to Dispatch a Letter, I should forget Anything I wished to say in the intervening Time, I am Sure.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>When Laurence’s first letter reached him by way of his lawyers’ secure communication channels, Tharkay was in Assam. </p><p>He had been assigned by the Government -- or Company; they were interchangeable, really -- to install himself in Bengmara, the newly autonomous northeast region of the kingdom; infiltrate the court of the Borsenapati in order to ferret out the last of the Moamoria leaders; and ensure that the rebels remained unconnected to the Bengali resistance cells springing up elsewhere in the area.  </p><p>He had long since ceased to be offended by the Empire’s belief in his willingness to work against his own kin for personal gain. Instead, he cheerfully set about accomplishing the exact inverse of his assignment through a combination of feigned incompetence, malicious compliance, and outright sabotage. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I have made my Best Attempt at recalling the Stories you told me of the Constellation we call the Southern Cross -- how You should ever have soaked up and retained all of that Knowledge from the Dozens of distinct native Nations and Cultures in Terra Australis during your short time here, I shall never understand.  </em>
</p><p>“Were Tharkay here,” said Temeraire crossly, “<em> he </em> would know how to explain it to me.”  </p><p>
  <em> I Remember the one about Mirrabooka, yes, and how he became the Guardian of His People, and also the one about the Stingray and the Shark, and the... Eagle’s Foot, I think it was? Truly, your mind is a Marvel, Tenzing; for my own part, I shall have to see whether Tharunka will pay us a Visit, for I cannot satisfy Temeraire’s Curiosity with my own Poor Recollections.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Still, it is Nice to have a Reason to think of You, of an Evening.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>Tharkay’s first resistance contact was Preeti, a court dancer with whom he had found himself smitten after seeing her dance Draupadi with such grace and longing that it pierced his heart -- she was perhaps the only person he had met whose eyebrows could best his own in expressiveness. </p><p>They quickly became lovers. He brought her flowers to weave into her hair and information to pass to the Bengalis; they took turns feeding each other sweetmeats and intelligence while lazing about in bed, drinking <em> bhang. </em> </p><p>Meanwhile, he sowed discord between the British and the Burmese, who had been eyeing Assam with greedy intent ever since the rebellion had begun nearly thirty years ago, destabilizing the Ahom kings and leaving them ripe for conquering. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The construction of Temeraire’s Pavilion proceeds apace, though he is -- as we predicted -- Most Particular about the Materials.  </em>
</p><p>“Were <em> Tenzing Tharkay </em> here,” said Temeraire, “we would already have <em> found </em>the proper stone for the pavilion’s floor, Laurence; you cannot deny that he is better than you at seeking these things, and in matters of taste to boot.”   </p><p>
  <em> I believe he misses you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I cannot blame him.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> *** </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Preeti unlocked the door to her room, then turned around. “Tonight has been so wonderful,” she said. “And now I have something to show you.” </p><p>Arjun slid an arm around her waist. He had arranged the evening’s entertainment, a private performance of a portion of the Ramayana, for invited guests only. The rendez-vous had been necessary for the handoff of various materiel, but he had planned its cover especially for Preeti: she rarely had the opportunity to enjoy these gatherings as a guest. </p><p>He had offered her his arm and escorted her around the party with pride; he had refilled her cup, over and over; and now she was here looking up at him with the most beautiful smile… </p><p>“Lead the way,” he said, and opened the door.</p><p>The packages had already arrived; now she went to them and began to pry open the largest box. Arjun went to help her, and when they had lifted the heavy lid he looked down to see not just weapons, but… </p><p>“These are mangal-kavya,” Preeti said. “Do you know them? They are -- well, they are folk stories, doggerel really, but -- they are not loved by the empires, and we sometimes use them to --” she broke off, because Arjun had taken her face between his hands and was kissing her soundly. </p><p>“These,” he said against her lips, “are more dangerous than the guns.” </p><p><em> Oh, </em> her smile was like a sunrise. He kissed her dimples, her cheekbones, her brow… “I hoped you’d like them. And now you will have more stories, <em> our </em> stories, to take with you when you go.” </p><p>“Wait,” he said, and pulled back to look at her blankly. “These are for <em> me?”  </em></p><p>“Well -- yes, of course, who else?” </p><p>“You got <em> me </em> books?” he said. </p><p>“Yes…” she was looking at him with a hint of concern, now. “Yes, that’s what I said.” </p><p>“You got me <em> books,” </em>  he said. </p><p>“I -- yes -- Arjun, you must tell me what you are thinking, for I cannot --” </p><p>He sank to his knees before her, and mouthed at the bulge in her skirts. “Let me show you.” </p><p>He dressed Preeti in silk and pearls; he showered her with kisses and caresses; he worshiped her body day and night. Preeti could hold him; Preeti could kiss him; yes, Preeti could even pin him down by the back of his neck while she took him from behind, and it was not nearly as terrifying as when Laurence placed a palm there, because Preeti did not have his name. </p><p>Love given in the security of ephemerality was not intimacy. Theirs was a surface romance, two souls alike in their queer guarded ways: honest in character and void of context. They understood one another without explanation. </p><p>It was <em> most </em>nourishing. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> *** </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I find myself Strangely Content here, in this little valley. I wake and find that my only Duties are to Temeraire, to Temeraire and my own Conscience; and though that Freedom still Scares Me a little, it grows Easier and Easier to bear, these days. I am Living. I am Learning How.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I follow Your Example.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>And when he pulled out his logs to note down the intelligence Preeti and his other contacts had given him, it was to Laurence that Tharkay addressed his thoughts. </p><p>He would sit and allow them to unfurl, watching all of the little bits of information from his myriad sources arrange themselves in a pattern -- and then he would imagine how he might explain the whole of that pattern to Laurence. “The Burmese have accepted an envoy from France,” he might say.  “The Ahom rulers speak English to the Company, Assamese at court and Bengali at home,” and perhaps, “Under the Moamara sattra, kings and nobles cannot conscript those of lower caste to service or labor against their will.” </p><p>Laurence would -- Laurence would <em> see </em> him, Laurence would see what he was doing, Laurence would <em> look at him like that </em>and say something like, “By your actions alone you have kept the Empire at bay in Assam for another decade, Tenzing, you are a wonder…” </p><p>Yes, Preeti could kiss him ten thousand times; Preeti could fuck him every which way day and night for a moon’s turn and more; and still he would not feel as he did when Laurence looked at him like that. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Hammond has promised me a Pardon - ha! - should I accept Their Charge and return to the Service. I am not sure how or whether to tell him that I Will Not Serve Him, no, not him nor any Agent of the Empire ever again.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Do I accept? You already know what I shall choose, and so do I. (Compass toward my Stars, remember?) There is work to be done.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Temeraire sends his love.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours (&amp; Temeraire’s: in truth, mostly Temeraire’s) sincerely, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will Laurence  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>When Laurence’s next letter reached him, Tharkay was only a little worried. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Tenzing,  </em>
</p><p><em> F U C K F U C K F U C K F U C K </em> <b> <em>F U C K !!!!! DAMN THEM. </em> </b> </p><p><em> I cannot find within myself an ounce of Christian goodness, God forgive me, but I cannot stomach it, the loss of all those good men, all those </em> <em> lives, </em> <em> and for what?  </em></p><p><em> I do not know how to -- we came through a five-day gale only for the Allegiance to be sunk -- sunk in a matter of minutes by the selfishness, the cowardice, the </em> <em> drunkenness </em> <em> , the -- the sheer </em> <b> <em>FUCKERY,</em> </b> <em> of her own crew, while her officers snatched a bare hour of respite after the storm.  </em></p><p>
  <em> It was my old night-mare all over again, only it was real, and it was awful, Tenzing, it was awful. Temeraire is safe, and I am safe, for now. I am not well. But I must be, for his sake -- for all our sakes: if I have learned anything from this, it is that in times of great need, good men cannot rest.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am afraid that I must cut this letter Quite Short. I am entrusting it to M. De Guignes, who has promised me that he will see my Letters sent; and I must take His Word for it, for he is leaving us stranded on a Scrap of Rock on his way Some Where, to return after his Business is concluded.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Will,” Tharkay murmured, reading that line. Ever too trusting, but at least he had known that De Guignes would never have seen the letter delivered had there been any real intelligence in it. Luckily, Tharkay already knew where De Guignes was headed, and better yet: he knew who now comprised one of his party. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> As I have no reason to expect that I shall have Another Chance to write, I may as well tell you: if I am to perish Here, I think I might regret the Decision we made, that Last Evening in Sydney.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Well, and there is As Much Reason to think that we may Survive, and if we do, then that Choice should be Justified and me with No Regrets: for God Willing, We Shall Have More Chances. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your obdt svt, &amp;c.,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will Laurence </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>There was nothing to be done for it; Tharkay had already given Laurence what help he could. De Guignes would not have stranded Pemberton: an advantage afforded by her femininity; and now Tharkay was doubly glad that he had arranged for Whitehall to replace him with Sara’s former lover and protegee. Better and better: having helped train her, Pemberton was one of the few of his colleagues whose motives and judgement Tharkay respected even remotely. </p><p>Upon receiving the assignment, she had written to him -- a short message only, encoded in Hebrew: <em> CAN HE BE TRUSTED ?  </em></p><p>Tharkay’s response had been even shorter: <em> YES. </em>  </p><p>He would have to hope that it would be enough. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Tenzing, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We may yet survive after all.  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>It happened that Tharkay was in Britain when Laurence’s next letter finally arrived. </p><p>“Captain Tharkay!” Admiral Roland waved him in. “Well met, well met -- Whitehall bad as ever?” she said, coming around the desk to shake his hand. </p><p>He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he drawled. </p><p>She laughed. “Pour us a round, will you? I have something for you.” </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p><em> I write this to you on the back of Maps we discovered aboard a </em> <em> Pirate Ship, </em> <em> of all things, wrecked off a Cove just on the other side of the island.  </em></p><p>Were Tharkay here, thought Laurence, he might know how to approach Roland and Demane with more delicacy. He had always had a particular talent for saying just enough, but not too much; only that which needed to be said for one to make the intuitive leap themselves, and thereby understand all the better.  How Laurence would value his counsel, now…  </p><p>
  <em> I am working out our Proposed Course as I go -- I hope you will forgive the Calculations between lines, but as you know I have always worked better when imagining myself in Conversation with a Confidant. As Penance I offer These Maps to you, to keep for yourself -- should I ever have the chance to send this Letter, I will already have made Fair Copies, I am sure. </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He started when the package thudded onto the table in front of him. </p><p>“Ha! I count myself lucky: mine was not nearly so heavy,” said Roland, sitting down. “I am glad of it -- you have far more patience than I for his earnest professions and innermost thoughts.”</p><p>Well, and Laurence had never written <em> Tharkay </em>a letter in which those earnest professions had both publicly undermined his authority and discredited him before his peers in the most humiliating way possible, at a time when the war effort could least afford it. </p><p>Roland took her drink in hand. “The man is an absolute <em> fool,” </em> she said, with <em> just </em> a hint of bitter edge. “Genius; they should never have got off that island without his mad scribblings, to hear John tell it, but a fool all the same.” </p><p>Tharkay raised an eyebrow, and reached for his letter.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes, I know - You Will Not Consign Your Course to Another Man’s Judgment, &amp;c &amp;c, but I hope you will take My Word that These Maps are Accurate, now that I have drawn them over for you, and marked Our Course besides. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>He did not read the entire thing, only scanned a few lines here and there -- but he flipped those pages over, and indeed, there were maps on the back, with Laurence’s neat rows and columns of calculations, and little annotations with things like, “how strong do you think the current is here?” and “if we overshoot this island, will we make it to the next before we run out of water?” </p><p>Roland, seeing Tharkay examine the maps, shook her head. “Mad, I tell you, mad and genius both.” </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> WE ARE IN SIGHT OF LAND. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Surely there will be a Way for me to send this via courier or post when we arrive to the Shore of the Incan Empire, and so I shall close Here, in hopes that I shall have a chance to send this forthwith. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours in piracy, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will Laurence </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dear Tenzing,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I have not had a Chance to send the Letter.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It has been so long that I have simply given up, and continued This One afresh, for there was quite a lot of Space left at the bottom of the last Page, and I would not waste it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There is the most curious Method of Communication here, with Knotted Thread in great quantity and a variety of Colors. I will not deny that it is a useful method of Encoding Information, for surely spun thread is less susceptible to the Elements than Paper, but it seems rather Laborious to me for anything much longer than Official Dispatch. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am enclosing a sample of the threads, a Transliteration of the message they bear in Quechua, and a Translation - surely it is another language you will shortly acquire, knowing your Prodigious Talents in such disciplines.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Reading that bit, Tharkay raised his eyebrows: Laurence undoubtedly did not realize the implication he was making, but Tharkay could not miss it. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You will recall, I hope, our conversation on Dragonback that Day on the Allegiance - well, I have been Informed in the most direct way Possible that such Practices are indeed Well-Tolerated in the Aerial Service; and I cannot be Surprised, though I do confess myself a little Perplexed, and still I occasionally struggle to understand the Attitudes toward Carnal Relations among Aviators, especially as they relate to Children.  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>He looked up and caught Roland’s eye, smirking. </p><p>“Oh, <em> that </em> -- had you been there I’m certain it would have gone differently, but as it was -- apparently John had to <em> speak to him,” </em> said Roland. “It must have been horrific, you know how he is when his feathers are ruffled -- probably all ‘here’s my utterly correct posture,’ and those terrifying lordly <em> manners, </em> that <em> tone, </em> and John more flustered by the second -- ” </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> The crew have started saying “Were Mr. Tharkay here” and attributing the most outlandish feats and abilities to your name. I do not dispute them, for I know you must contain multitudes, and depths I have not plumbed; and yet still I do not think it likely that you learned falconry from a phoenix, though I would believe it if you told me so… </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He smiled to see that last, for it was now clear that Laurence had known exactly what he was saying, all along. It was just like him, <em> dear </em>Laurence, to cloak his playful insinuations with outright compliments.  He flipped to the last page. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p><em> I Hope, or shall I say, I Dare to Hope that you might be Proud of me, Tenzing, for Temeraire and I have managed Some Thing. We, along with many of our company and of course the Co-operation and Generous Spirit of Reconciliation on Both Sides -- </em> ha! said Tharkay to himself, I will make a wit of you yet, Will Laurence -- <em> have been permitted to assist in brokering an End to the Portuguese Trafficking in Slavery here, and the Manumission of all Previously Enslaved Persons in Brazil, to the delight of the Tswana and their Ancestor Dragons, and the Incan dragons with their Ayullu, and most especially and importantly those Souls held in Bondage these Many Years.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Truly, most of it was not My Doing; I stood back and allowed matters to Proceed in Large Part as the lady Lethabo and the Tswana Directed, though I will not deny that my Presence as go-between was of Some Little Value.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I want to tell You this most especially because - as you know - where Temeraire is my Guiding Constellation, you are the Lodestone in my Compass, Tenzing; I should be entirely lost without you, and indeed, this Liberation should never have been effected without Your Gracious Influence upon my Conscience and my Person.  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“He is,” said Tharkay, looking up from the letter, “an absolute fool.” </p><p>Roland raised her glass. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> And now I am finally closing this Behemoth of a Letter, and ha! I have managed to fill the Entirety of the Last Page.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> May I confess to Missing Your Company?  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yours, ever, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will Laurence </em>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Laurence: ugh i kinda wish we’d fucked tbh cause like i’m probably about to die<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay: welp </p><p>#i really admire how Novik handled the British + the Subcontinent in the series tbh #because there’s not a great way to cast Laurence as the good guy in that story #and she also didn’t NOT address it  #but like Tharkay definitely woulda been all up in that </p><p>References: </p><p>Bhathal, Ragbir, Astronomy in Aboriginal culture, Astronomy &amp; Geophysics, Volume 47, Issue 5, October 2006, Pages 5.27–5.30, https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-4004.2006.47527.x</p><p>Curley, David L. Poetry and History: Bengali Mangal-kabya and Social Change in Precolonial Bengal. Chronicle Books, 2008. ISBN 978-81-8028-031-3.</p><p>Shah, Purnima. . Transcending Gender in the Performance of Kathak. Dance Research Journal, 30(2) 1998, 2-17. doi:10.2307/1478835</p><p>^^ quote from the introduction of that one (emphasis mine): “This paper focuses on the fluidity of gender performance in light of the indigenous philosophical concepts of "oneness" or NON-DUALISM exemplified in Kathak abhinhya. This study is inspired by my observation and participatory experience as a dancer-performer of this form.” </p><p>I honestly love being able to read sources written by people who are actually part of that tradition &lt;3 </p><p>JSYK: hopefully I made it obvious enough, but Preeti is absolutely nonbinary/GNC -- today we might call her a trans woman, but that’d be applying contemporary constructs to a context where that doesn’t make sense. But yeah, only Males performed Kathak dance up until the turn of the twentieth century -- except that per the paper above, classical Hindu traditions teaches us that the gender binary is fake news, so: </p><p>Preeti: fuck the colonial bullshit, i do what i want because i’m part of a thousand-year tradition<br/>Tharkay: i’m super into that </p><p>I’m going to recommend @alokvmenon on all of the usual channels, for someone who has written a lot about their own experience as a nonbinary person of South Asian descent, and gender in contemporary and historical South Asian contexts - Ithey really are the inspiration for Preeti, tbh. </p><p>Thoughts? Feelings? Opinions? Let me know in the commentsssssss</p><p>With gratitude,<br/>nb*** </p><p>P.S. OH YEAH and this ain’t romance between our men yet - notice how they’re not pining for each other? They’re just like “hey i fucking miss you, damn, you’re the only one who actually gets me” and not “omggg i want a future with yooooou, i will make active choices to share my life with yoooouuuu” Like they’ll get there, obviously, but right now they just regular old ‘LOVE YOU, FRIEND’ because queer understandings of sex and relationships are valid.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Qinling Shandi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So uh. This is the Torture Chapter. It's not graphic, per se, but it is... a lot. Make sure all lies well before proceeding. </p><p>The editing playlist song for this one was Escapism feat. AJ Michalka, written by Rebecca Sugar for the Steven Universe soundtrack. </p><p>Pretty sure there's no canon dialogue, but if there is, it's marked with an asterisk*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>The Qinling Shandi ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or,</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tharkay destroys the evidence</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Tharkay’s last act just before his capture had been to tear the final page of Laurence’s letter to pieces and throw them to the wind. </p><p>A sentimental sop, to carry it with him, but that <em> yours, ever, </em>had sustained him through his most recent Whitehall ordeal, and he could not bear to leave it in the care of his lawyers: he took that single page with him when he left Britain, folded in oilcloth and tucked in his chest pocket. </p><p>The discovery of his log did not worry him -- he and Arkady had just deposited the latest volumes at his mountain cache; and Tharkay had with him at his capture only one quarter-full logbook. It would not be destroyed, being too clearly valuable; but neither could it be read: he kept his logs these days in a cipher of his own making, his mother tongue rendered in a variation on the Persian script; and each volume encoded further with individual keys. </p><p>The last page of Laurence’s letter, however, was in plain English, and included valuable intelligence besides; and he thought of a blue sky and a sparkling sea, and heard himself and Laurence explaining to Temeraire that such friendships must be treated as precious jewels, closely guarded. </p><p>And so Tharkay destroyed the page; and counted himself lucky that he had had it to read in the first place. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Someone is coming for you…  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No, no, no.   </em>
</p><p>He was somewhere dark, a cave perhaps, somewhere in the mountains, somewhere the air did not move. The soldiers had taken him, had taken him and… </p><p>
  <em> Here you are.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No-one is coming.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They are coming.   </em>
</p><p>“No,” he said, and paced his cell, making plans to escape. </p><p>
  <em> They are coming.    </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Who is coming?  </em>
</p><p>They came and took him to another chamber, tied him to a chair. They had his things spread out on a table: Persian script, Pamiri clothing, British papers. His own maps, done in -- <em> not quite the Dutch tradition, but not quite the Chinese, either…  </em></p><p>One of his captors stood very close to him, peering at his face. “What <em> are </em>you?” they said.</p><p>“沒有差別,” said Tharkay. <em> It makes no difference. </em>They were just agents of another empire; he would not give them the satisfaction.</p><p>His captor struck him across the face. </p><p>
  <em> Here you are.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They are coming…  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Are you ready?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Here they come.  </em>
</p><p>They did not let him sleep. Time slid sideways, and there was only the torch and the shadows on the wall, and the sick sense of unreality; he did not even have the refuge of dreams. </p><p>“What is your name?” they demanded. “No, what is your <em> real </em>name?” </p><p>“沒有什麼.” <em> It is nothing. </em>He would not be their weapon; he would not allow them to use him. </p><p>Was someone singing? </p><p>
  <em> Breathe. You are here with the pallet and the fire.  </em>
</p><p>Was someone praying? </p><p>
  <em> You are here </em>
</p><p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !  </p><p>
  <em> Breathe.  </em>
</p><p>The lashes were not deep, as lashes went -- but there were so <em> many </em>; and the cold salt water burned. </p><p>“Why are you here?” </p><p>“沒有發.” <em> I am at a loss. </em> He was finding it harder and harder to fly up and out of himself, each time they took him. </p><p>“沒有,” they called him. “沒有, 沒有, 沒有...” </p><p>
  <em> Here they come.   </em>
</p><p>“What do you carry? Who is it for?” </p><p>
  <em> Who is coming?  </em>
</p><p>His aji was singing, his aji was praying, his aji was praying for him. </p><p>
  <em> Here.  </em>
</p><p>“How did you get here? How did you sneak past our borders?” </p><p>“沒有什麼不可能,” he said -- <em>nothing is impossible --</em> and tried to breathe past the fractures they had kicked into his ribs, past the burning water -- he could not, he could <em> not --  </em></p><p>
  <em> You are  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fire and shadow and </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Breath </em>
</p><p>“Where are you from?”</p><p>“沒有差別,” he said. <em> It makes no difference.  </em></p><p>“No, where are you <em> really </em> from?” </p><p>“沒有差別.” </p><p>“Who are your people?”  </p><p>“沒有差別.” </p><p>They spread his fingers wide. </p><p>मते मते सितला माजु सहश्र बिनति छिके, याहुने लोक उधार ! </p><p><em> Survive, just survive, JUST SURVIVE. </em> </p><p>Tharkay tried to fly away, and could not; his hands were a symphony of pain, throbbing, radiating from his fingertips all the way up his arms…  </p><p>
  <em> Just survive  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Nobody is coming  </em>
</p><p>“Who sent you? Who do you serve?” </p><p>“沒有人.” <em> Nobody, nobody.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Nobody is coming </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They are coming  </em>
</p><p>He could feel his pulse everywhere, he could not leave his body; soon he would say whatever they wanted. सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! </p><p>“What are you? Why are you here?” </p><p>“沒有意義.” <em> Meaningless.  </em></p><p>He was tired, so tired. He just wanted to rest. </p><p>
  <em> SURVIVE  </em>
</p><p>“沒有,” they taunted. “沒有, 沒有, 沒有.” </p><p>
  <em> just survive  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> it doesn’t matter  </em>
</p><p>At least there were those who would miss him. Someone -- two someones, even -- would mourn him, when he was gone. </p><p>मते मते सितला माजु सहश्र बिनति छिके, याहुने लोक उधार ! </p><p>“Tell us your name.” </p><p>
  <em> no, no, NO   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you must survive  </em>
</p><p>“沒有差別.” </p><p>
  <em> nothing matters   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> NO   </em>
</p><p>Someone stood over him, a figure wreathed in fire and smoke. “You are a credit to your kind,” they said. </p><p>“沒有辦法,” croaked Tharkay. <em> There’s nothing to be done for it. </em>He closed his eyes and tried to remember light and wind; a blue sky meeting a bluer sea in the cool quiet of the morning. </p><p>Was someone singing?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Soldiers: um so like…<br/>Soldiers: what *are* you …?<br/>Tharkay: are you fucking serious<br/>Soldiers: in fact we are </p><p> </p><p>References: </p><p>Lienhard, Siegfried. Songs of Nepal: an Anthology of Nevar Folksongs And Hymns. Honolulu: Center for Asian and Pacific Studies, University of Hawaii, 1984.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>I… have a lot of feelings about the fact that I had to torture Tharkay in this fic. I kinda resent it, to be honest, and I struggled to find a way to approach this chapter. </p><p>And then as I started noting down some of the beats for Tharkay’s interrogation I was like “wow these questions sure do sound a lot like the microagressive small-talk questions BIPOC people experience from white people on a daily basis” and well the rest is history. I’m NOT saying that microaggressions are literal torture -- it would be utterly disrespectful to conflate those things. What I AM saying is… wow, those questions really do just fit right in to an interrogation scene, don’t they? </p><p> </p><p>A note on translation: </p><p>I chose to write this chapter this way for a bunch of reasons --  </p><p>a) Multilingual people don’t just think in one language, especially when, you know, struggling under physical torture or whatever </p><p>b) The soldiers’ name for Tharkay makes sense in Mandarin but not in English -- it’s the first part of every answer Tharkay gives to the interrogators: 沒有 or “méi yǒu” in pinyin. </p><p>c) Junot Diaz is a misogynist and generally terrible person, but he did once say something pretty good on this topic, so I’m going to quote it here: “Motherfuckers will read a book that’s one-third Elvish, but put two sentences in Spanish and they think we’re taking over.” </p><p> </p><p>So: anytime there is another language in this fic, it will either be translated in-text (like the Mandarin in this chapter, for the most part), or its translation is part of the story, and you’ll find it out later -- aka the Newari song. What WON’T happen is me translating down here in the notes for you, lol. </p><p>Talk to me about your experience of this chapter in the comments: I’m really curious about how this one lands for readers, and this is the space to process. </p><p>With gratitude,<br/>nb***</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Shaanxi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: make sure all lies well. Nothing specific, but this chapter is a lot. </p><p>Ok so my editing playlist song for this one was Lost My Way from the Carole and Tuesday soundtrack, which everyone should watch on Netflix - it's like if Yuri!!! On Ice were about two sixteen year old girls who wanna write songs. </p><p>However, I highly recommend listening to the Newari song featured in this chapter as you read: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BP0-pU7e-EM because that’s what I did while writing this chapter (and really the whole fic, tbh). </p><p>All of the events described are actual history canon, and the in-story origin of the song is also very much actual history canon. </p><p>And any dialogue marked with an asterisk* is book canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Shaanxi ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or,</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tenzing leaves the mountains</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>When the two men entered his aji was already seated on the floor cushions, calm and regal. Her presence enfolded him, curled around him like a vine; her hands were steady on his shoulders. She smelled of the flower offerings they had made at puja together just now. </p><p>His uncle paced the room. His father immediately descended to sit opposite Tenzing and his aji. Neither greeted them. </p><p>“Why did you vacate without my leave?” his father said instead: an accusation. “I looked for you, for you and Lumanti and the baby at the palace, and in the valley…” </p><p>“Where is the girl?” demanded his uncle, still pacing. “Where is the boy’s mother?” </p><p>Tenzing translated. His aji did not speak the language of colonizers, and they had not bothered to learn hers. </p><p>“Your daughter is dead,” said his aji. “Your wife is dead.” </p><p>“What? But...how…” </p><p>“Smallpox came to the Kathmandu Mandala.” Her hands were steady on his shoulders. Tenzing heard her prayer-song, the one she had sung all the long way from the mountains: सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! </p><p>“Is that why you left?” said his father. </p><p>Tenzing heard न्यना मदु खना मदु कचि मचा तय मदु, महाराजया हुकुम जुल<sup>1</sup>and did not translate his aji’s song: she sang only for him. Her hands were steady on his shoulders. “All children suspected of carrying the pox were exiled,” she said. “On the King’s order.” </p><p>“But surely…” said his father, “Surely you were protected, I left instructions…” </p><p>He felt his aji’s breath behind him, the breath which had sustained him all the long way from home. It was even, steady, careful: a cold rage. She did not sing: नायखिन बाजन थायका, सिपाहीन घेरे याका, कचिमचा पितिनाव छोत.<sup>2</sup></p><p>“We were driven out,” she said instead, impassive. “By armed soldiers, on the King’s order.” </p><p>“Well, and what did you go through with that ridiculous heathen ceremony for, Albert,” said his uncle, “if not to afford the boy and his mother some protection in your absence? It seems there was no point to it after all.” </p><p>Tenzing did not translate this. Inside his head he was singing with his aji: कइ बीम्ह कछला माजु, लख जायकीम्ह सितला माजु, यनकीम्ह बछला माजुयाके फोने.<sup>13</sup></p><p>“What happens now to Tenzing?” asked his father. Tenzing started: it was the first time his father had spoken his name since sitting down. </p><p>नसा बजि ब्यकुंच्यासे, कचिमचा लुकुंछिसे, वनेमाल तामा खुसि पारि.<sup>3</sup> He looked up at his aji. She was keeping herself calm; she was staring at the colonizers, breathing evenly: cold rage. Her hands were steady on his shoulders. छम्ह मचा लुकुंछिसे, छम्ह मचा ब्यकुंच्यासे, छम्ह मचा लुतुलुसे यने.<sup>4</sup> </p><p>“Well?” demanded his uncle. “What will happen to the boy?” </p><p>His aji raised an eyebrow, and did not take her eyes off his father. “He is your son.” The words felt a little funny coming out of his mouth, when Tenzing spoke them in English. </p><p>लखि मखु पसि मखु न्हाकंप्वाच दाया हल, सिपाहीन घेरे यानाहल.<sup>12</sup>  </p><p>“Has he…” his father asked weakly, avoiding her gaze. “Has he no other relatives? No other family?” </p><p>Even before Tenzing translated this, his aji moved a hand to the back of his neck, and he felt her sing to him: <em> you are my child, so precious to me, </em> सुरज कोमजो थाल चिकुं पुना मचा सित, <em> you are mine: </em> माम बुबां नुग दाया खोल.<sup>15</sup> </p><p>“He is,” said his aji to his father, in English, “your son.” बाम्ह मचा माम जोंसे बाम्ह मचा बुबां जोंसे तामाखुसि कुतकाव छोत.<sup>17</sup> Her hand was warm, steady on his neck.   </p><p>“Yes, of course, but…” said his father, “but surely he would be happier here, among his own people…” </p><p>His aji did not sing: सीम्ह मचा उयमदु मचा गाले थुनेमदु, परजाया गथिन हवाल !<sup>16</sup></p><p>“But Father,” Tenzing said, looking up at him. “Am I not <em> your </em>son?” </p><p>His aji’s hands were heavy. “Tenzing.”*  </p><p>He had heard his… name?  </p><p>Tharkay opened his eyes and there was a shadow over him, a shadow wreathed in fire; they were coming for him: they would take him again. No -- no, <em> please, </em> he had only one left -- “沒有必要,” he said, and tried to fly away, and could not escape.  </p><p>“Tenzing,” someone said, in a voice -- a voice roughened by gunpowder. No, no, it could not be real; he had not given them his name. He closed his eyes again and curled in on himself. </p><p>And then there were hands on him, and they touched him as if they knew him; as if they did not want to cause him pain; and they guided him to stand. </p><p>And there was something, another scent --  something like... flowers, or sky, or safety. “Aji?” he croaked.</p><p>“Tenzing,” said a voice roughened by… heartbreak? </p><p>He swayed and fell into a body, a familiar body which smelled of blooming jasmine… but his aji was long dead, it could not be, it <em> could not be… </em> but no, someone <em> was </em> holding him, someone who smelled of flower offerings, yes, <em> dvapho- </em> flowers and… and whispering trees…  no, <em> no -- </em> he dared not believe -- surely it was <em> not… </em>  “ <em> Will </em> -- ?”  </p><p>“Tenzing,” said Laurence. “Tenzing, Tenzing.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He woke, that first night, and blacked out with pain trying to void his bladder. Laurence was wiping him clean when he came to: there was blood in the chamber pot. Laurence took it away, took it away and returned; and then Laurence lay back down with him -- सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! -- and held him while he shook. </p><p>“They beat me,” Tharkay rasped finally, into Laurence’s chest. Laurence did not speak, only placed his hand on the back of Tharkay’s neck, held him a little closer and breathed into the admission, into the pain of it; and Tharkay did too -- shallow, still, with his cracked ribs -- but there was space inside him to contain it now that he was safe…  </p><p>…लखि मखु पसि मखु न्हाकंप्वाच दाया हल, सिपाहीन घेरे यानाहल<sup>12</sup> -- “Please, Will,” he said. “Keep me here.” </p><p>“Tenzing,” Laurence murmured into his hair. “You are here, you are safe, Tenzing, I am here, I am -- I am myself, and I am here with you, and you are here with me and we are safe now; Tenzing, brave soul, my--my compass, Tenzing, you are safe.”</p><p>He curled into Laurence’s heartbeat, and tried to breathe past the pain. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>He retched up his first meal not three minutes after getting it down. Laurence held his hair back. </p><p>“They starved me,” he said. </p><p>कइ बीम्ह कछला माजु, लख जायकीम्ह सितला माजु<sup>13</sup>… “I am here, you are here, and I am here with you; you are safe,” Laurence was saying. “Rest, Tenzing, dear one, rest; I am here, I am myself, I am here with you, I will take care of you.” </p><p>Was someone singing? All of his memories had been shaken loose.</p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> -- you are mine, you are precious to me, I will keep you safe --  </em>
</p><p>He slid in and out of dreams, flying with Laurence and Temeraire on the way to Peking. When he fell asleep on Laurence’s shoulder, Laurence guided Tharkay’s head down to his lap, covered him with his own cloak, stroked his hair. </p><p>“They did not let me sleep,” Tharkay sang. “यनकीम्ह बछला माजुयाके फोने<sup>13</sup> --” </p><p>--  नय यात नसा मदु तिय यात वस मदु, च्वने यात बास जित मदु<sup>11</sup>… </p><p>As soon as the colonizers were gone, his aji pulled him into her lap. “Tenzing,” she cried into his hair. “Tenzing, Tenzing, my heart, my child, you are mine.” She kissed his forehead, his nose, the still-healing pockmarks on his cheeks, over and over. “Bright star, brave warrior, you are so precious to me, my child, you are mine.” </p><p>
  <em> -- it’s all right, Tenzing --  </em>
</p><p>He slept and woke to Laurence’s steady heartbeat, Laurence’s fierce whisper, redolent with clinging jasmine… “Temeraire and I will reduce their palaces to rubble and ash before we let them take you from us; this I swear: we will never leave you, Tenzing, I will never leave you, I will always come for you. Wherever you are in this world, land or sea, we will find you: we will keep you safe.” </p><p>
  <em> -- you are mine --  </em>
</p><p>His aji was holding him, his aji was rocking him, cradling him close. “... थ्व हे मचा बचे जुसा जोलिंजोल बखुन बोयके, लुंयागु ओयागु द्वाफो स्वान छाय.”<sup>14</sup> She sang of protection, protection and sacrifice… </p><p>
  <em> -- keep this child safe, Mother Sitala, deliver this child … if my child lives, I will release a pair of pigeons, I will offer dvapho-flowers of silver and gold --  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He did his best not to exacerbate his wounds, but the lash marks were too extensive to avoid entirely: his entire back was striped, suppurating angry red. He could not help twitching away, when Laurence put an arm around him. </p><p>
  <em> -- why have you brought him here? --  </em>
</p><p>“It <em> hurt </em>, Will,” he said in a very small voice. “It still hurts.”  </p><p>“Yes,” said Laurence, and there was a -- a <em> tone, </em> to his voice... “I know.” They breathed. Laurence placed a hand at the back of Tharkay’s neck. </p><p>
  <em> -- how did you sneak past our borders? --  </em>
</p><p>लखि मखु पसि मखु न्हाकंप्वाच दाया हल, सिपाहीन घेरे यानाहल.<sup>12</sup> </p><p>
  <em> -- he is my son --  </em>
</p><p>Someone was singing. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He woke, or thought he did, and they were leaving the mountains. </p><p>His aji was warm, steady against him; he lay his head on her breast and listened: heartbeat and breath, rumbling stone and rising wind… she had picked him up and carried him when they were fleeing the soldiers, when the fever struck him and he could walk no further -- <em> you are powerful, you are treasured, you are my child and you are cherished, you are mine --  </em></p><p>“Tenzing, Tenzing, you are here with us, you are here with me, all will be well, I am here, I am here with you now; I will always be here, great heart, dear one, compass of my soul; you are ours; we will protect you with our lives -- ” </p><p>“यें देसं दना वना खोप देसे बास जुल, तलेजु माजु दरसन याये…”<sup>5</sup> Was someone singing?  </p><p>“-- lay down your burdens; we will carry you through fire; we will weather all storms --”<em> Mother Kachala, Mother Sitala, deliver this child; Mother Bachala, I beg you, do not take my child from me; my child, my child, you are mine, you are precious to me -- “ </em>I will protect you: you are safe here, Tenzing; you are with us --” </p><p>They were leaving the mountains. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The canteen was unsteady in his ruined hands. He brought it to his lips, and it shook, it tipped -- the water -- the water -- </p><p>
  <em> -- no, what is your real name? --  </em>
</p><p>He choked, spluttering and coughing -- he could not <em> breathe, </em> he could <em> not --  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- you cannot mean to give the boy our name, Albert; think of your family -- am I not your son? -- why are you here?  </em>
</p><p>There was no <em> air, </em>there was no -- no help, no-one was coming for him, no-one wanted him -- </p><p>
  <em> -- if it was not a Christian marriage --  </em>
</p><p>And then there were arms around him, and a steady, even breath, and a heartbeat that had sustained him all the long way through the mountains, fleeing the soldiers.  </p><p>
  <em> -- think of your family --  </em>
</p><p>“Tenzing,” said Laurence, and breathed against his skin, a rhythm Tharkay could feel -- could feel, and follow, and begin to match. </p><p>
  <em> -- who claims you? where do you belong? --   </em>
</p><p>“They,” he said, or tried to say. “They -- they --” and <em> oh, </em> his ribs splintered -- there was no space inside him for this -- no, <em> no --  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- no, what is your REAL name? --  </em>
</p><p>“Breathe with me, Tenzing,” said Laurence. “Breathe, like this, like -- like the waves. These things are here, Tenzing, these things are true: we are here, we are together, you are ours and we are yours and we are safe, Tenzing, we are safe now: we are together.” </p><p>
  <em> -- think of your family --  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>***  </p><p> </p><p>A goddess of stone loomed above him, and he did not feel caged.  </p><p>“खोप देसं दना वना बनेपास बास जुल, चन्देस्वरी दरसन याये --”<sup>6</sup></p><p>
  <em> -- of course he is your son, Albert, no-one denies that, but what about his sons? What about your legacy: who do you imagine will marry their daughter to an Oriental? --  </em>
</p><p>She bent and placed a hand on his forehead, cool against his burning skin. </p><p>“Tenzing,” she said. “Truth-keeper, bright soul, you carry the heart of mountains, Tenzing, you are wondrous.” </p><p>“बनेपानं दना वना पलांचोस बास जुल, भगवति दरसन याये…”<sup>7 </sup></p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>He did not look at his hands. He flew away while Laurence changed the bandages and rewrapped the splinted fingers, every time. </p><p>
  <em> -- what ARE you? --  </em>
</p><p>The pustules blistered, blistered and bled -- he scratched at them, on his face and hands where they were thickest: tearing them open provided some relief. </p><p>-- कइ बीम्ह कछला माजु, लख जायकीम्ह सितला माजु, यनकीम्ह बछला माजुयाके फोने<sup>13</sup> -- </p><p>His aji bathed his bleeding hands, and wrapped them with strips of bandages dipped in something which cooled the pain a little. </p><p>
  <em>-- the boy is not even cut, Albert, what sane Christian would want him? -- </em>
</p><p>“Do not hurt yourself,” she said, and bound his bandaged hands in soft cloth, winding it around and around until he could not free himself if he tried. </p><p>
  <em>-- what are you what is he is my son you are my child he is are you what are you -- </em>
</p><p>He protested only a little. “But Aji, I need my hands.” </p><p>“You must not hurt yourself,” she said. “I will see to your needs, until they heal.” </p><p>
  <em> -- WHAT ARE YOU --  </em>
</p><p>And then Tharkay slid into himself, for Laurence had finished, and was now clasping his hand, lifting it -- slowly, slowly, as if he did not want to cause him pain -- and then Laurence touched his lips to -- to the only finger not covered in bandages: the softest possible kiss, alighting like a butterfly upon the half-moon at the base of Tharkay’s left thumbnail. “You are,” said Laurence, hushed, <em> “so </em> strong.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>A silver ribbon stretched below them. There was wind in his face… he was warm; he was safe. He looked up: his aji was there. “Are you true?” </p><p>दोलाघातं दना वना तामाखुसि बास जुल, वने मानि तामाखुसि पारि<sup>10</sup>…They had not yet crossed the river. </p><p>His aji’s breath sustained him. </p><p>“I will break this world,” she said. “I will shake empires down to their foundations to see you safe and well, as you deserve, Tenzing, as you have always deserved; we will suffer no harm to come to you, ever again. You are...treasured, Tenzing; you are cherished, you are precious to me. You are ours. You are here. You are safe. You are here with us, with me, and I will keep you safe, Tenzing, I swear it.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Albert: cool, cool, coolcoolcoolcoolcool so like do we send him to a monastery to train as an air nomad or<br/>Aji:<br/>Aji:<br/>Aji:<br/>Aji:<br/>Aji:<br/>Albert: okayyyyyyy guess not </p><p>#an aji’s prayers are the strongest force in the universe #there’s something here about the hard love of marginalized motherhood #but really Toni Morrison and NK Jemisin got there long before i did #just to name a few </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>The superscript notations above refer to the line of the song (and it’s honestly for me, so I can keep track of which lines I’m quoting). So, I guess if you want you can look them up and find the translation yourself, or you can wait to learn about the song along with Laurence. </p><p>Talk to me in the comments! </p><p>With gratitude,<br/>nb***</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Peking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song I had on repeat while editing this one could only ever have been Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable, though Sitala Maju featured heavily throughout the actual story-crafting process.  </p>
<p>This chapter is Grade-A certified organically grown canon, through and through.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Peking ; </b>
</h1>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Our men weave patterns</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Peking was a welcome respite after the hurried flight from the mountains. By unspoken mutual agreement the aviators had made Tharkay’s sickroom their base of operations; so that between Granby, Demane, and the rest of the formation’s captains -- not to mention the dragons and their other officers -- he was never left alone for long, even when Laurence was away. Sipho in particular seemed to consider Tharkay his personal charge: in Laurence’s absence he would crawl onto the bed to sit at Tharkay’s side, singing quiet songs they had shared aboard the <em> Allegiance </em> while Tharkay slept -- or tried to. </p>
<p>For the fevered exhaustion immediately following his rescue had given way to fevered dreams -- and though he desperately needed rest, his mind would not allow him to sink below the surface of nightmares; he floated somewhere in between -- jolting awake, heart pounding, at the smallest sound. The washbasin was the worst: water, poured from a pitcher, splashing against skin, spilling into the porcelain bowl… his eyes would snap open, breath catching -- <em> no, please, no --  </em></p>
<p>His fellows quickly learned not to stand over his bed when this occurred; it only worsened the panic. It was much better when he woke to light and air -- breezes playing through open windows, and friendly voices chattering of strategy or supply or nothing in particular.  </p>
<p>When he did wake to find himself -- <em> alone, no-one is coming, no-one wants you -- </em>he had only to look to the wall beside his bed, where hand-drawn maps greeted him like friendly stars, where Laurence had scribbled notes to him like: “which of the Ural passes do you think the tyrant is likely to use?” and “should we approach the Russian forces directly from the south, here → or swing further east?”  </p>
<p>And Granby -- <em> dear </em> Granby -- contrived each evening to leave the two of them alone, chivvying all the others ahead of himself on his way out. Tharkay thought Laurence probably did not notice, being entirely occupied with his own set of troubled memories in addition to their present labors, but Tharkay certainly appreciated the gesture.  </p>
<p>For though Laurence had his own quarters, it was -- more convenient, more <em> expeditious, </em> really -- for him to simply climb in with Tharkay, those nights when they had sat up late talking of strategy, or supply, or nothing in particular. Laurence knew how it felt, to both desperately need and strenuously avoid sleep: Laurence’s nightmares were real, too. </p>
<p>And anyway, it was not so unusual for a commander to spend the night in the war room. </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>*** </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Their preparations were nearly finished. Tharkay had barely left his bed except to hobble around the room, as he was doing now, while the aviators sat scattered on the floor with their maps and supply lists. His skin was knitting itself together; his cracked bones were beginning to mend; and that morning, Tenzing Tharkay had made a decision.</p>
<p>Now he flinched: Little was pouring a glass of water. </p>
<p>It was <em> unreasonable, </em> he knew it was. Laurence had wiped his brow with something cool and damp, once or twice these last weeks -- <em> the sound of dripping water, of wringing cloth </em> -- and even the scent had been enough to send icy terror racing through his veins. </p>
<p>Tharkay had sweated through countless sheets, his skin sticky with sour fever; he had let them change the soiled and greasy linens, night after night… yes, he knew it was unreasonable, but he did not <em>care: </em>the washbasin was bad enough. Though he had suffered Laurence to scrub away the worst of the grime just after his rescue, still he was not <em>clean, </em>not really -- and yet the thought of, of water pouring over his head, of <em>submerging -- drowning</em> -- <em>no, no, please -- </em>沒有差別 -- </p>
<p>He put his hand to the wall -- steady, steady. </p>
<p>“Are you well?” <em> Dear </em> Laurence. </p>
<p>“Never better,” said Tharkay, and took another step forward. By the time he finished his circuit and collapsed onto the bed, Granby and the others had taken their leave. </p>
<p>His present aversion to water was unreasonable; he <em>knew</em> it was unreasonable -- and he wanted so badly to feel <em>clean -- has he been baptized? no, of course not -- </em>he had loved the music of water, once; had sought out its song. Had shared the melody with Laurence -- dear Laurence, who was just now sitting on the floor looking up at him with undisguised affection and a bewildered sort of gratitude.</p>
<p>Tharkay looked into those guileless eyes and could not say: <em> please, I need... </em> he could never ask, no, but he might… no, no, he <em> would </em>provide space for Laurence to offer: “I have called for a bath.” </p>
<p>And Laurence, faithful as ever, said immediately, “It would be my very great honor to attend you, if you will allow it.” </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>Laurence had disrobed him enough times by now that it had become routine. Tharkay’s legs trembled: with his ruined hands he could not even cling to Laurence’s shoulders for support.  </p>
<p>The water in the great copper tub -- it even <em> sounded </em> the same. The cloth, the pitcher -- they were the same tools, the same -- <em> no -- </em> he inhaled. This was different: there had been no warmth in the cave, no soap, no steaming herbal infusion meant to soothe his hurts. No Laurence holding him fast, gripping just above his elbows <em> -- it’s all right, Tenzing, it’s all right…  </em></p>
<p>He stepped into the basin. </p>
<p>The panic came immediately. He was frozen, knees locked, heart crashing -- <em> what are you -- </em> fire was racing up his legs; ice was creeping through his veins -- <em> choking, burning water -- </em> he could not breathe, he could not <em> breathe --  </em></p>
<p>“Tenzing,” said Laurence. His hands tightened on Tharkay’s arms. “I am here, we are here.” </p>
<p><em> -- who claims you? who do you serve? -- </em> his teeth clenched, a whine issuing from high in his throat -- <em> no, please </em> -- <em> a hand, forcing his head back -- </em> 沒有發 <em> -- </em> he swayed, lightheaded: there was no <em> air --  </em></p>
<p>“Tenzing,” said Laurence. “Breathe, Tenzing, breathe.” And stepping forward he brought a hand to the back of his neck, brought their foreheads together. “Breathe with me, Tenzing,” Laurence whispered into the space between them. </p>
<p>He gasped, mouth wide -- too much: his ribs would splinter --  </p>
<p>“And out, Tenzing, like the waves,” said Laurence. “Yes, like this…” and there it was: the rhythm which had sustained them all the long way from the mountains. Tharkay exhaled -- <em> you are here, you are safe -- </em>and gulped in air once more. “Good, yes,” Laurence murmured. “Yes, Tenzing, yes.” Laurence’s hand was warm, steady on the back of his neck. </p>
<p>They breathed together: the wave was receding, for now. It threatened to return when slowly, slowly, Laurence began to bend his knees, guiding Tharkay to sit -- but they were breathing through it, together -- कइ बीम्ह कछला माजु, लख जायकीम्ह सितला माजु, यनकीम्ह बछला माजुयाके फोने.<sup>13</sup></p>
<p>He was huddled in the tub, hunched in on himself: elbows tucked in, mangled hands in the air. The water was hot, just at the edge of uncomfortable, hot enough to remind him of where he was, to divert his terror. And it <em> smelled </em> different, this water; it smelled of -- of familiar herbs; of garden balsam and clubmoss, and clematis root: infusions meant to soothe his hurts -- and Laurence was here, and perhaps… perhaps it would be all right. </p>
<p>मते मते सितला माजु सहश्र बिनति छिके, याहुने लोक उधार<sup>20</sup>… </p>
<p>Tharkay took in a breath -- and flicked the end of his ragged braid, splashing drops of water at Laurence’s face. “Take care of this for me, will you?” His voice wobbled: he did not quite manage the cut-glass drawl. </p>
<p>
  <em>-- has he been baptized? no, of course not --  </em>
</p>
<p>Laurence’s eyes were bright with something; Laurence’s jaw was clenched; and Laurence’s hand was steady. He nodded. </p>
<p>
  <em> -- who claims you? who do you serve? --  </em>
</p>
<p>Tharkay scooted forward in the bath, looking up at those bright eyes. He did not need to explain: Laurence knew him. </p>
<p>
  <em> -- it would seem he is my son --  </em>
</p>
<p>He began to lean back. Laurence held on, stayed with him, did not leave him. </p>
<p>
  <em> -- the boy is not even cut, Albert, what sane Christian would want him? -- </em>
</p>
<p>He trembled; his breath caught; and Laurence did not leave him. Laurence held him steady, tethered him to the present: an anchor. </p>
<p>
  <em> -- you are my child, so precious to me --  </em>
</p>
<p>Laurence breathed, and Tharkay breathed, or tried -- but pain lanced through his chest, in one of his fractured ribs -- the water was at his neck, around his throat - <em> no, please - </em>the wave of panic rose, rose and swallowed him up, would soon drown him for good -- </p>
<p>
  <em> -- what do you carry? who is it for? --  </em>
</p>
<p>-- but Laurence was here; Laurence was holding on; Laurence was looking at him like <em> that, </em> as ever, hovering just above him. “Tenzing,” Laurence said, and when the wave receded, Laurence was still there. </p>
<p>
  <em> -- you are safe --  </em>
</p>
<p>Tharkay closed his eyes, yes, and tipped his head back until his ears were underwater. His head was lighter: his hair was floating… बाम्ह मचा माम जोंसे बाम्ह मचा बुबां जोंसे तामाखुसि कुतकाव छोत<sup>17</sup>… </p>
<p>“They lay me back, just like this,” he said, looking up into those bright eyes. “And poured water over my face.” He felt the words leave his mouth but did not hear them: though there was space inside him to face this, now -- though he could accept it, with Laurence here, he could not bear to listen to himself say it. </p>
<p>Laurence’s mouth was shaping his name. He let the truth settle: a sinking stone, a burden made easier for having been shared.   </p>
<p>There was a tug at his scalp: Laurence was combing his fingers through the braid, working it loose -- and then Tharkay’s hair was fanned out around him like seaweed, brushing his shoulders and back, curling around his cheeks; and Laurence’s fingertips were working their way around his scalp in swirling patterns. </p>
<p>
  <em>-- my child, truth-keeper, dear one: you are powerful, I bless your name --</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Tharkay. “Oh, that feels <em> good...” </em></p>
<p>दोलाघातं दना वना तामाखुसि बास जुल, वने मानि तामाखुसि पारि<sup>9</sup>... he took in a breath, closed his eyes, and slid below the surface...   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>-- </p>
<p>-- - - - - --</p>
<p>--- --- --- -- - - -- </p>
<p>--- - - - - - ---- - - - -   ---- --- </p>
<p>बाम्ह मचा माम जोंसे बाम्ह मचा बुबां जोंसे तामाखुसि कुतकाव छोत<sup>17</sup>…  </p>
<p>… it was warm and dark down here, and all he heard was the blood rushing in his ears, the water lapping against the sides of the tub, bubbles rising to the surface: distorted music, but still there… the water was singing to him, the water was singing with his aji…</p>
<p>स्वामि जुजुया धर्म मदया कचिमचा वाके छोत, वनेमाल तामाखुसि पारि<sup>18</sup>…   </p>
<p>-- - - - ---- -- - - </p>
<p>- - --- - -</p>
<p>… and then Laurence’s hands were drawing him up, cradling him -- <em> you deserve this -- </em> and when Tharkay’s face broke the water’s surface Laurence took it between his hands, wiping at Tharkay’s eyes with his thumbs -- <em> you are precious to me -- </em> and Tharkay looked up -- दोलाघातं दना वना तामाखुसि बास जुल, वने मानि तामाखुसि पारि<sup>9</sup>… </p>
<p>Laurence said nothing, only looked at him like <em> that, </em> eyes steady and bright... and Tenzing found that he could breathe. </p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>He drifted while Laurence soaped his hair, from the roots all the way down to the ends; and then Laurence’s hands made their way back to his scalp, working at the tension held knotted in his crown and jaw. His eyelids fluttered: it felt <em> good…  </em></p>
<p>
  <em>-- you are treasured, you are cherished --</em>
</p>
<p>And then Laurence was holding a pitcher, and Tharkay knew what was coming next. “Yes?” </p>
<p>
  <em> -- why are you here? --  </em>
</p>
<p>His gut clenched, but he nodded all the same. </p>
<p>Laurence placed a hand to his cheek, tilting his head back. The panic came, screeching, shrieking -- his shoulders were rising to meet his ears -- and Laurence stayed with him, Laurence did not leave him -- there was no <em> air </em> -- “Tenzing.” </p>
<p><em> -- what do you carry? </em> -- <em> what sane Christian would want him? -- who is it for? --  </em></p>
<p>Tharkay took in a rattling gasp. Laurence did not leave him. </p>
<p>Instead Laurence -- dear, <em> dear, </em> Laurence -- kept a firm grip on his jaw, kept his head tilted back, kept him from shaking himself apart. Eyes never leaving his face, Laurence placed the pitcher -- precisely, <em> so </em> precisely, <em> dear </em>Laurence -- at Tharkay’s hairline, and began to pour. </p>
<p>It felt <em> nothing </em> like the cave. नसा बजि ब्यकुंच्यासे, कचिमचा लुकुंछिसे, वनेमाल तामा खुसि पारि<sup>3</sup> -- Laurence was tending to him with reverence, Laurence was rinsing him with caresses, Laurence was… </p>
<p>“दोलखा देसं दना वना तामाखुसि पारि थ्यन, महादेव दरसन याये.”<sup>10</sup> Was someone singing? </p>
<p>
  <em> -- you are precious, so precious to me --  </em>
</p>
<p>And then it was done. </p>
<p>Laurence’s bright eyes were on him; Laurence was here with him; Laurence had not left him for an instant. “You honor me,” Laurence said. His voice -- it was -- <em> those terrifying lordly manners, that tone -- </em> their private language: their method of impressing import, their shared shields behind which lay those raw and ragged emotions which could never be directly expressed -- <em> I am very glad we shall be shipmates --  </em></p>
<p>“Yes,” said Tharkay, and managed the crystal drawl, this time. </p>
<p>After that it was easy to uncurl a bit and let Laurence comb his hair: it did not hurt; it sparked no panic; and the oil Laurence was using to ease the comb’s passage was fragrant with familiar flowers. Tharkay breathed in and out, in and out: a steady rhythm. </p>
<p>थ्व हे मचा बचे जुसा जोलिंजोल बखुन बोयके, लुंयागु ओयागु द्वाफो स्वान छाय<sup>14</sup>...  </p>
<p>The tug of the comb -- it was so <em> soothing, </em> so… he uncurled a little more, stretching out his legs. “Jasmine was blooming in Istanbul, like the offerings at puja.”</p>
<p>“Pardon?” said Laurence. </p>
<p>“Not…” Tharkay shook his head. “Not here, not now, but something like.” He was not quite making sense, he knew, but the words swam away when he reached for them. “Do it up in the latest fashion, if you please.” </p>
<p>Laurence’s mouth twitched. “Your wish,” he said, and bent to his task. </p>
<p><em> -- I will see to your needs, until they heal -- </em>छम्ह मचा लुकुंछिसे, छम्ह मचा ब्यकुंच्यासे, छम्ह मचा लुतुलुसे यने<sup>4</sup> -- when Laurence was done, Tharkay’s hair hung around his face and shoulders in… not braids, <em>exactly,</em> but -- </p>
<p>“Well, this one is properly called a chain sinnet,” Laurence was saying. “And the rest are just the same rope pattern, with four or six strands -- oh, this one is eight, here.” And he passed Tharkay the rope of hair in question. </p>
<p>“Why, Captain Laurence,” said Tharkay, examining it: he kept getting lost, trying to follow one piece through the whole of the pattern. “I did not know you possessed such talent in the weaving arts.” This -- teasing Laurence, being <em>surprised</em> by him… he might feel almost like himself. </p>
<p>“You insult me, Captain Tharkay,” rejoined Laurence in the same light tone. “I <em> am </em>a sailor, you know.” </p>
<p>
  <em> -- the smell of cigars and the burnt-sugar taste of rum, gunshots and a terrace overlooking the harbor --  </em>
</p>
<p>Their eyes met. “We’ve said that before, haven’t we,” said Laurence. “Or something very like.” </p>
<p>Tharkay was having trouble focusing on Laurence’s face, but he nodded all the same. “In Sydney. I had two canteens,” he said, and closed his eyes to drift as Laurence bound the braids into a loose knot atop his head, out of the water. </p>
<p>“खोप देसं दना वना बनेपास बास जुल, चन्देस्वरी दरसन याये…”<sup>6</sup> They were at the great shrine, praying before a goddess carved in stone; and Laurence was humming some shanty as he tended to him with soap and cloth and gentle hands; and his aji was telling him the story of how Candesvari had defeated the demon Chanda; and Laurence was rubbing tension from his shoulders and neck… </p>
<p> -- <em> you are treasured, you are cherished, you are precious to me…  </em></p>
<p>The next time one of them spoke, it was because Laurence had taken one of Tharkay’s feet and was digging his thumbs -- <em> right </em> there, just -- “Ohhhhhhhhhh <em>fuck,</em> Will.”  </p>
<p>Laurence <em> nearly </em> smiled. “Good?” </p>
<p>“Hhhhaaaaaanhhhh,” said Tharkay. He slid lower, just a little, and let his head loll back against the wall of the tub. “Now all we need is some <em> bhang </em> to drink -- cannabis, that is; or perhaps a bottle of baijiu.” </p>
<p>“I saw cannabis for the first time in your company,” said Laurence, as if realizing, or remembering. “On the way to Istanbul.” </p>
<p>“That was your first time?” Tharkay looked at Laurence through his lashes. <em>“That </em>explains more than it doesn’t.” </p>
<p>And <em> oh -- </em> there it was: a smile, breaking across Laurence’s face like sunlight through stormclouds. “You have been present for so many of my moments,” Laurence said. “It is no wonder…” He turned his attention back to Tharkay’s foot. </p>
<p>Tharkay tilted his head. “Yes?” </p>
<p>Laurence was redoubling his efforts, stealing a glance at Tharkay’s face every now and then <em> -- I would not burden you with my musings -- </em>and Tharkay only looked at him, yes, looked at him and raised an eyebrow, waiting. </p>
<p>“All around me have assumed that it was the second blow to the head which returned me to myself,” said Laurence finally. “I let them believe it, because…” he shook his head. “But it was --  it was <em> you, </em> Tenzing, it was your name.” </p>
<p>Tharkay blinked, and they were flying <em> -- such moments are not for others’ consumption -- </em> he blinked again: he was here, he was <em> here, </em>he was looking at Will -- </p>
<p>“I was lost,” Laurence was saying. “I still am, but I… I was so <em> lost, </em> trying to make sense of the man I’ve become, trapped inside the mind of the man I used to be… I had nothing, no -- no point of reference, no foothold or landmark which might help me orient myself, might point me toward my bearing…” </p>
<p>
  <em> -- without your Gracious Influence upon my Conscience and my Person --  </em>
</p>
<p>“And then,” said Laurence. “Then I was in that passageway, lit by fire, and I opened the door and saw you, and I -- I knew your name, Tenzing, I knew your <em>name,</em> and I knew <em>you, </em>and only then did I know myself, and -- and I remembered… I remembered what I had been -- what I still am…” He bowed his head -- <em>killing soldiers, most of whom are starving.</em> </p>
<p>“Will,” Tharkay breathed. It was all he could manage.  </p>
<p>Laurence’s eyes were brimming over when he looked up. “They <em> used </em> me, Tenzing,” he said, his voice broken. “I let them make me their creature again, and they used me, they used me to hurt you.” One diamond-bright tear fell into the bath. </p>
<p>Tharkay breathed very carefully. Laurence needed -- he did not -- but how might he bring him to understand, how might --<em> the one who made the pieces make sense -- </em> damn it all, his mind kept slipping sideways! सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल… but there was a pattern, it was so clear, it was <em> right there, </em> if only he could find the words <em> …  </em></p>
<p>He wiggled his toes, right in Laurence’s face. Laurence sniffled, wiping at his eyes, and managed another smile, at that: Sydney again. Tharkay inhaled -- he could do this, yes, he could, he could show… </p>
<p>When he spoke, it came out like a prayer. “I do not believe I have told you,” -- he had to pause to take in another shallow breath -- “why I chose to give you my name.”   </p>
<p>Laurence shook his head. </p>
<p>“You already had it.” Was someone singing?  </p>
<p>“Pardon?”  </p>
<p>“That night… aboard the Allegiance, do you remember? Not -- ” he waved a bandaged hand. “Before that.” </p>
<p>“I -- yes?” said Laurence, “I remember <em> you: </em> you were telling me to live, you were telling me that I was <em> good, </em>that the fault was not with me…” </p>
<p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. “And before that?” </p>
<p>“I was -- <em> realizing,” </em>said Laurence, “I -- I fell, I fell before you…” </p>
<p>… सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. “And just before that?” </p>
<p>Laurence shook his head, eyes wide with helpless confusion. “I do not…” </p>
<p>“Just before that,” said Tharkay, “you named me.” </p>
<p>“I -- what?” </p>
<p>“Do you remember what you said, just before that?” <em> -- Tenzing, Tenzing -- </em> “You called me by my name.” </p>
<p>“I said…” Laurence was searching. Tharkay stayed quiet: मते मते सितला माजु सहश्र बिनति छिके, याहुने लोक उधार !<sup>20</sup> “I said, ‘you are a…’” Laurence trailed off, groping, groping… <em>please, please remember, let him remember...</em> “‘You are a -- a lodestone to truth?’” <em>Yes. </em></p>
<p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. Yes, yes. </p>
<p>“I do not understand,” said Laurence. </p>
<p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !</p>
<p>“My mother’s mother named me,” said Tharkay, and paused to inhale again. “As is our tradition, when I was twelve days old.” <em> You are my child, you are precious to me, you are mine -- </em>he was drifting. With some effort, he pulled his eyes back to Laurence’s face, his mind back to the present. </p>
<p>“When my aji gave me this name,” he said, “My name, Tenzing, she named me ‘keeper of the Buddha Dharma,’ the, the,” he waved, “the revealed truth. Keeper of the revealed truth.”</p>
<p>“Tenzing,” said Laurence; his eyes were full and bright. </p>
<p>Tharkay nodded. “You see? You already had my name, when I gave it to you. I gave it to you <em> because </em>you already had it.”   </p>
<p><em> “Tenzing,” </em> said Laurence. </p>
<p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. “Many have demanded it from me, have attempted to wrest it from me, have <em> desecrated </em> my name -- but you alone <em> … </em> the fault was never with you, Will -- even when you…” <em> -- no, what is your REAL name? --  </em> “even when… you have always found your way, on your own, and you found your way to my name <em> aa’AArrrrrcq… </em>as the man you were, as you ever have.” He probably was not making sense, but --  </p>
<p>But Laurence was looking at him as if -- as if he were a hallowed shrine, a holy relic; as if he were dawn breaking over a ridge beneath an open sky; and then Laurence had inclined his head to press quivering lips to the arch of Tharkay’s foot, still held in his hands. “Tenzing,” he said.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Tharkay, and closed his eyes to drift as Laurence switched feet.  </p>
<p>
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</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When next he woke, or thought he did, it was to Laurence’s hiccup and sigh: they were in bed, and Laurence was weeping. </p>
<p>He slid a foot around Laurence’s ankle. “Will,” he said, and turned his head to kiss the nearest patch of exposed skin. </p>
<p>“I do not mean to -- to -- ” Laurence’s voice broke. </p>
<p>Tharkay found Laurence’s face, and wiped at the tears with his thumb. “I am here with you,” he said. “We are here together.” He kissed Laurence’s skin once more and breathed, deep as he could with his still-healing ribs; and squirmed closer: he could smell puja offerings.   </p>
<p>… सुरज कोमजो थाल चिकुं पुना मचा सित, माम बुबां नुग दाया खोल<sup>15</sup> </p>
<p>A heart beat steady beneath him, part of a rhythm which had sustained him all the long way from the mountains. “Don’t cry, Aji, don’t cry,” Tenzing said in his mother tongue. “I survived, I survived, we are here together, I am here.” </p>
<p>
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<p>***</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tharkay: you mean to tell me<br/>Tharkay: that of all the 20 billion herbs they gave us for my pain<br/>Tharkay: not a single one of them is weed???<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay: damn I miss Assam sometimes </p>
<p>#this chapter happened because my partner gave me a two-hour pedicure and it was the most vulnerable i’ve ever felt #Tenzing South &amp; Southwest Asia-Based Tharkay is and will always be a stoner don’t @ me #that cannabis bit is canon from Black Powder War #lolol it’s a canon bit of cannabis #a cannabit of canonbis  </p>
<p>References:</p>
<p>Chen B, Zhan H, Chung M, et al. Chinese Herbal Bath Therapy for the Treatment of Knee Osteoarthritis: Meta-Analysis of Randomized Controlled Trials. Evid Based Complement Alternat Med. 2015;2015:949172. doi:10.1155/2015/949172</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Altayn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one goes a lot of places; make sure all lies well. </p><p>The song I had on repeat while editing this one was Time Adventure, by Rebecca Sugar.</p><p>The events described are historically accurate, with some very slight creative liberties.</p><p>This chapter is pure spring canon, bottled at the source.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>The Altayn ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Our men can't sleep </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Before they departed, Tharkay and Pemberton found a few hours to debrief one another without compromising their cover. </p><p>“That’s some captain you’ve got,” she said when they were through. “I like him, for all his irritating concern for us fair and delicate flowers.” </p><p>“I daresay Roland will set him right, one of these days,” said Tharkay, and had to breathe in again before adding: “And if not her, then her mother.” </p><p>Pemberton laughed. “If you witness either you must report to me; it is sure to be an excellent story.” She extended her hand. “Should you see Sara before I do, pray give her my love.” </p><p>“Likewise,” said Tharkay, and shook it. </p><p>
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</p><p>*** </p><p>
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</p><p>Sipho’s arms tightened. Tharkay’s ribs creaked. </p><p>He did not protest; but rather hugged Sipho back, crooning: “Sikhona, sikhona, sikhona.” Sipho had sung this to him, sitting at his side while he had been trapped between nightmares: <em> we are all right, we exist, we are here.  </em></p><p>“Sikhona, sikhona, tata.” Sipho sniffed: his tears were soaking through Tharkay’s shirt. “Ndiyakuthanda.” </p><p>One of Tharkay’s broken ribs twinged, right over his heart. “Uyindoda emadodeni,” he said, placing a hand atop Sipho’s fuzzy curls. <em> You are a man among men: </em>Sipho had sung him this, too. He kissed the smooth dark forehead. “Ndiyabulela kakhulu --” he paused to inhale, “-- kakhulu, mntwana wam.” </p><p>“सुभाय्, tata,” said Sipho, wiping his face. </p><p>Was this how pride felt? “Sula inyembezi -- izakubonana,” said Tharkay. “Hamba kakuhle, sala kakuhle.” <em> Go well, keep well.  </em></p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The flying-coat was magnificent: supple leather, padded and lined with silk in a burgundy so deep it was only a shade or two removed from the rich burnt umber of the coat itself; and tiny gold embroideries winking just inside the collar and cuffs.  </p><p>“They’ve done a very good job,” said Temeraire with satisfaction. “Though I would have liked more gold -- but yours could not be nicer than Laurence’s, in any case.” </p><p>“You have my gratitude,” said Tharkay, and stopped to inhale.</p><p>“Well, it is only your due -- Churkhi put me right, you know; you are not one of my <em> crew, </em> really, but you are very much <em> mine -- </em>especially as Arkady has done such a poor job of seeing to your welfare -- and it is my responsibility to see you properly outfitted and cared for.”  </p><p>He had just enough breath to say: “You honor me, Temeraire.” </p><p>
  <br/>
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</p><p>*** </p><p>
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</p><p>“Sir,” said Roland to Laurence with a smirk. “Will you come see if all lies well in your quarters?” </p><p>Tharkay narrowed his eyes: she was entirely too enthusiastic about this menial errand. </p><p>It was the same tent they had shared on the way to Peking: part of Temeraire’s pavilion, so richly appointed as to be nearly luxurious in its utility. The only change was the addition of heavy silk brocade curtains around the sleeping-area, drawn back to reveal a dressing-table and a double-wide camp-bed.   </p><p>Ahh. Well, then. </p><p>Laurence barely glanced up from his maps. “All seems in order; thank you, Roland.” </p><p>She looked like a child denied a sweet. “Very good, sir.” </p><p>Behind Laurence’s back, Tharkay raised an eyebrow at her as she stalked past. “It’ll take more than that, these days,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, smirking a little in his turn. She did not respond except to present him with a rude gesture, and Tharkay was obscurely proud: he had taught her that one. </p><p>
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</p><p>*** </p><p>
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</p><p>It had been Laurence’s nightmare, this time -- but it made no difference, really: when one of them woke in the night, both did. “Columns, crumbling into water… the weight of a city, and armed pursuit.” </p><p>“Memory,” said Tharkay. “Istanbul. Be glad you did not dream of the smell.” </p><p>“Will you…” Laurence’s whisper -- <em> don’t go -- </em> did not even reach the curtains. “Will you tell me the story?”</p><p>“Come here,” said Tharkay, plucking at Laurence’s nightshirt; Laurence scooted in to lay his head on Tharkay’s chest. “We were sneaking back into the palace from Maden’s,” he began. “You had already made it to the top of the wall; and I was only halfway up, having foolishly permitted you to go first --” </p><p>“Foolishly?” </p><p>“Foolishly,” said Tharkay solemnly. “Never let the Englishman go first, Will, never.” </p><p>That earned him a chuckle. “I shall remember.” </p><p>“See that you do.” He traced the scars on Laurence’s back, ridges the Tswana had raised; he had his own set, now. “But you, Laurence, you… I was already engaged with one of them when you jumped from the wall, right down onto the other guard. I do not believe I have ever been so shocked…” </p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p>
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</p><p>“Killing sleeping men, just before walking into a glittering castle in the clouds.”  They were curled on their sides, facing one another -- <em> do you ever dream of them --  </em></p><p>“Memory, but for the clouds. Occupied London.” Having thus oriented him Tharkay said no more, making space in the warm dark between them for Laurence to find his way… </p><p>“Oh,” said Laurence. “Oh -- Iskierka and Granby -- and that old sailor, and -- and Woolvey…<em> oh, </em> Woolvey, and <em> Edith </em>…” </p><p>“You retrieved his wedding ring at great risk to yourself,” said Tharkay. “And saw that it was returned to her.” </p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p>
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</p><p>Laurence was unwrapping his hands, and he had flown away -- <em> what are you? -- </em> </p><p>“I think we may safely leave these off.” Laurence’s voice was quiet; it yanked Tharkay back into himself all the same. A current of air skittered across his fingertips -- <em> what is your name? -- </em> and though it prickled, still it did not hurt -- <em> no, what is your real name? -- </em> </p><p>Tharkay looked at Laurence’s face, at his steady gaze -- <em> what do you carry? -- </em> and inhaled, a little at a time, for he did not know whether his ribs were quite healed enough for more -- <em> who is it for? -- </em> whether he could manage to expand himself enough to contain this truth: this last burden which Laurence had borne for him, all the long way from the mountains -- <em> how did you get past our borders? </em>-- </p><p>-- but when Laurence looked at him like that, yes, looked at him and then slowly lowered his eyes -- <em> what is your name? -- </em> Tharkay allowed his gaze to follow, and looked down at his own shaking hands -- <em> no, what is your real name? </em>-- and found that he could breathe, if only just barely. </p><p>“They did the first after one of my escape attempts nearly succeeded.” His voice was a thin trickle, bubbling up from beneath bedrock. “I stopped trying, after that. 沒有意義 -- ”  </p><p>-- for they had broken some of his fingers, yes, they had tried that first -- and when that had not worked, they had slid their thinnest, sharpest blades beneath his fingernails -- <em> what is your name? -- </em> and begun to pry them off, one by one, day by day -- 沒有發 -- </p><p>“They did the second and third, and I was proud of having told them nothing.” His left thumb had been the only one yet intact, when Laurence arrived. </p><p><em> --what do you carry? </em> “沒有什麼, I would say, or,” -- <em> who is it for? -- </em> “沒有理由, anything to deny them their answers.” <em> -- why do you speak our language? --  </em></p><p>“They made my pride into a mockery. 沒有, they called me, and laughed while they did the fourth, and the fifth.” <em> I suppose you have no name but this, then: you have named yourself the Have-Not, </em> 沒有, <em> you have chosen this name </em>... </p><p>“By the time they got to the ninth I had told them things, so many things, but none of them the answers they sought… 沒有人 -- denial, and the will to flee,” he said, and tasted bitter laughter. “Sometimes I think that’s all I’ve ever been.” </p><p>He swallowed in the flat silence between them, exposed and raw. </p><p>“Tenzing.” Tharkay did not look up, he <em> could not </em> face Laurence having spoken aloud this truth about himself -- “Tenzing.” Laurence was -- Laurence was holding his <em> right </em> hand, was lifting it slowly, so slowly, as if he did not want to cause him pain -- 沒有必要 -- and then Laurence’s lips, so very, <em> very </em>soft, were touching the ragged patches of raw skin, the still-healing wounds of his nail beds -- and he could not stand it; he would be washed away -- 沒有辦法 -- </p><p>“You taught Temeraire the names of the winds, Tenzing, in the desert,” said Laurence. “And you taught Sipho songs in all those tongues, aboard the ship…” His eyes were drawn upward -- <em> no, please -- </em> but it was all right, it was <em> all right, </em> because Laurence was -- <em> bright eyes, framed by spun silver beneath a veil of stars -- </em> Laurence was looking at him <em> like that, </em> with awe born of esteem; and the strength of that gaze was keeping him <em> here, </em> holding him fast as an anchor-line -- <em> a hand in his hair --  </em> “... neither Roland nor Demane ever learned close combat like that from me; and in Terra Australis you absorbed and recounted to me a dozen stories for the same stars, all of them true.” Laurence kissed his fingertips again, soft, <em> soft… </em> “We are not what they would make of us,” he said. “沒有什麼不可能 : Tenzing, truth-keeper, you taught me that, too.” </p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p>
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</p><p>“Would you <em> please </em> -- ” Laurence whined, tugging to no avail -- <em> Tenzingggg --  </em></p><p>“Out of the question,” drawled Tharkay. “I am the invalid, here; you must acquire your own blanket if you cannot be content with your share of this one.” </p><p>Laurence cuddled in closer, grumbling; and Tharkay ceded a little more of the covers. </p><p>
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</p><p>*** </p><p>
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</p><p>“Fire, and a sinking ship…” </p><p>“Memory,” said Tharkay. “The <em> Goliath, </em> or the <em> Allegiance.” </em>He extended his arm: an invitation. </p><p>Laurence rolled into him, reached for his hand. “All those men,” he said softly. “All those <em> lives.”  </em></p><p>“Yes.” Tharkay curled around him; there was nothing else to say. </p><p>
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</p><p>*** </p><p>
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</p><p>His heart was racing. Laurence pulled him close and breathed -- not so deep as to hurt his mending ribs, but intentional, steady and even -- </p><p>He was here. He was here with Laurence and the blankets and the curtains. He was here, and Laurence was breathing with him, Laurence was humming… Laurence was humming… </p><p>Tharkay jerked: he recognized the melody, but how -- </p><p>“You sang it often, on the way to Peking.” When he had been hallucinating, delirious with fever and pain. “It seemed to bring you some comfort.” Laurence said no more, leaving room for him to offer… </p><p>Tharkay reached for Laurence’s hand, and did not speak. The refrain was rising in his mind, its harmonies drowning out all other thought -- सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल…  सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल…  सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल…  </p><p>“It is a prayer-song, a lament, from my mother’s people,” he murmured finally into Laurence’s hair, fragrant with familiar flowers. “A prayer for the exiled child.” </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>“Dover?” It had been a pleasant one, this time. </p><p>Tharkay shook his head. “Not with me.” </p><p>“Dream, then,” Laurence mumbled, and rolled over. </p><p>
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</p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>“Silk unfurling around a falling egg,” said Laurence. “Dangling harness-lines, and a ship in a storm.” </p><p>“The first two are part of a memory, but not on a ship.” He waited, making space for Laurence to untangle the threads, to reweave them for himself… </p><p>“Istanbul,” said Laurence at last. “Fleeing the palace, after the baths?” </p><p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. </p><p>“I had just promoted him.” Laurence’s voice was steel gone to brittle rust. “Digby -- he was -- he was <em> ten, </em>for God’s sake, only ten…” </p><p>“Yes,” Tharkay said, and carded his fingers through Laurence’s hair. “You wrote to his parents.” </p><p>
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</p><p>***</p><p>
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</p><p>Tharkay woke terrified. सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! </p><p>Laurence was there, Laurence was enfolding him, Laurence would protect him... <em> Breathe. Breathe, like the waves. </em>  </p><p>“सितला माजु स्वहुने…” <em> Breathe. Breathe, breathe, you are here… </em>“...परजाया गथिन हवाल !” Was someone -- ? </p><p>Oh. <em> Oh.  </em></p><p><em> He </em> had been singing. </p><p>
  <em> Breathe. </em>
</p><p>Laurence was tracing the ridges on his back; Laurence was quiet: listening, making space…</p><p>कइ बीम्ह कछला माजु, लख जायकीम्ह सितला माजु, यनकीम्ह बछला माजुयाके फोने.<sup>13</sup> <em>We pray, we pray, we pray...</em></p><p>“I survived smallpox as a boy,” Tharkay said against Laurence’s chest. “I was young enough that it didn’t scar much.” Hands, bound and wrapped in soft cloth -- <em> you must not hurt yourself </em>-- his aji was singing with him; his aji was singing the story --  </p><p>न्यना मदु खना मदु कचि मचा तय मदु, महाराजया हुकुम जुल.<sup>1</sup></p><p>“The colonizer’s disease came to the Kathmandu Mandala.” It came out bitter. “And King Rana Bahadur exiled the children, all of the children he thought might carry it, in an attempt to preserve the lives of his wife and son. Or as an excuse to claim my people’s lands and holdings, if you believe the cynics.” </p><p>नायखिन बाजन थायका, सिपाहीन घेरे याका, कचिमचा पितिनाव छोत<sup>2</sup>… </p><p>“The soldiers drove us, made us walk -- thousands of us. I did not have it, when we started… But my mother and the baby did, my baby sister. They died, and we could not stop to cremate nor even bury them. We threw their bodies in the river.” </p><p>सीम्ह मचा उयमदु मचा गाले थुनेमदु, परजाया गथिन हवाल<sup>16</sup>…  </p><p>“And then I fell sick, and still the soldiers drove us; and my aji carried me on her back.” नसा बजि ब्यकुंच्यासे, कचिमचा लुकुंछिसे, वनेमाल तामा खुसि पारि:<sup>3 </sup>a strong heartbeat and steady breath, sustaining him through delirium and pain and fever. </p><p>“We slept at shrines along the way, and at night the parents would sing prayers over us -- all night, over all of us children; for so many of us had already died, you see, between the pox and the cold...” </p><p><em> O mother Sitala, deliver this child, deliver my child -- </em> थ्व हे मचा बचे जुसा जोलिंजोल बखुन बोयके, लुंयागु ओयागु द्वाफो स्वान छाय <sup>14</sup> … <em> if my child lives, O mother, if my child lives I will make dvapho-flower offerings of gold and silver, I will release a pair of pigeons…  </em></p><p>“And then we crossed the river Tama, and my aji nursed me to recovery,” he said. “I went to live with my father in England after that, and the queen died anyway.”  He exhaled, and felt Laurence’s lips, soft upon his brow; Laurence’s arms secure around him. </p><p>
  <em> O mother Sitala, deliver the people, we beg you a thousand times!  </em>
</p><p>Tharkay closed his eyes and turned his face toward Laurence’s heartbeat, toward Laurence’s breath, rising and falling beneath his cheek: rock and wind which had sustained him all the long way from the mountains. </p><p>
  <br/>
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  <br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“A hanging cot...” Another pleasant one. </p><p>“The <em> Allegiance. </em>Memory,” Tharkay said, and then amended: “Mostly. It began with you having a pleasant dream, that night.” </p><p>“God, that explains it.” Tharkay waited, providing Laurence latitude to tell the story… </p><p>“I think I must have been dreaming of you then, too,” Laurence said. “In my dream I saw you, I knelt before you, and you were telling me to… to <em>live,</em> you were telling me that I had done right, and I -- I wanted to believe you, I wanted so badly to believe I was <em>good</em> -- and then I woke and you were there, just -- <em>there, </em>even though I had, even though -- and I didn’t, I couldn’t -- but you <em>stayed, </em>you stayed with me, it was <em>real,</em> you -- and it felt, it felt -- <em>God, </em>I felt so very, <em>very -- </em>I dream the memory of waking to you, having dreamt a memory of you; and now I wake, and here you are.” Wonder was creeping into Laurence’s voice. “Do I dream still?” </p><p>Oh, to hear himself described so -- to hear how Laurence remembered it… Desire was beginning to coil low in Tharkay’s gut like a long-absent friend: simple and straightforward, blessedly familiar, all the more welcome for having been unlooked-for. </p><p>Tharkay put his mouth very close to the nape of Laurence’s neck. “If it is a dream, then we are here together.” He placed a hand on Laurence’s hip. “But I think it is no dream.” He nudged a knee between Laurence’s thighs: an offer. “Yes?” </p><p>“Tenzing,” said Laurence. “I -- <em> yes, </em>though -- there is no expectation, no -- you must know, surely, that I would never presume -- ”</p><p>“I hope you will forgive my impudence,” Tharkay said, and tilted his hips a little so Laurence could<em> feel </em> his impudence, “but if that is your sole objection -- ” Laurence was pushing backward into him, bending a knee to give him room to move in closer, “-- then I shall repeat once more -- <em> ” </em>Laurence was already whimpering; Tharkay slid a palm over his mouth, “ -- that I have no further patience for polite demurrals from you, William Laurence.” </p><p>Laurence’s cry was muffled, but Tharkay did not need to hear it to feel how his words had landed: Laurence was arching, bucking, grinding backward -- <em>their shared hands, easing down a heaving belly -- </em>their interlaced fingers, taking Laurence in hand, beginning to stroke.  </p><p>“Yes, that’s it, Will, that’s it,” Tharkay said, and oh, it was just like the ship. “You are here, you are yourself, you deserve this,” -- <em> breathe with me, like this, like the waves -- </em>“this isn’t anyone’s to take or give, this is yours.” </p><p>Except this time Laurence turned his head at that part, sliding his mouth free of Tharkay’s hand <em> -- </em> and whispered over his shoulder, low and fierce, <em> “Ours.”  </em></p><p>It was Tharkay’s turn to whimper, just a little, and bury his face in Laurence’s hair, breathing in the familiar scent -- <em> you deserve this, you deserve to feel good -- </em>as Laurence caught one of Tharkay’s fingertips between his lips. </p><p>“Aaauuunnnhhh...” Leaving Laurence to continue stroking himself, Tharkay hitched up their nightshirts with the hand not currently occupied with -- with Laurence’s <em> mouth, </em> with Laurence’s soft lips on his still-sensitive nail beds -- <em> aunnnngghhh --  </em></p><p>And then it was skin on skin down below, <em> oh, </em> and Laurence was whimpering again -- they were moving against one another, but it was not quite -- not quite -- </p><p>-- Laurence twisted away, reaching for his sword-belt; and Tharkay knew at once what he was going for: the light paraffin oil standard in every weapons kit, which primary function was to stave off the ever-encroaching rust, and which every man who ever handled a blade had made use of as an aid to bring himself off once or twice, at <em> least.  </em></p><p>“Yes,” said Tharkay, and then moaned <em> “Yesssss,” </em>and bit Laurence’s ear when Laurence reached behind himself with a slick hand. Tharkay pushed the heel of his own hand against the curving muscle of Laurence’s behind, spreading him wide; and Laurence gave a high whine around Tharkay’s fingers in his mouth.  </p><p>The oil having been liberally applied, Laurence took himself in hand again and rocked backward, astride Tharkay’s thigh, so that he slid -- oh, <em> oh -- </em>Tharkay caught the rhythm, and began to roll his hips to match. </p><p>“Fuck, Will,” he panted into Laurence’s ear. “That’s good, that’s <em> so </em> good, you’re so <em> good…” </em> and Laurence’s answering noise did funny things to him, made him want to pin Laurence down -- <em> you are powerful, you are cherished </em>-- and then his member caught the edge of Laurence’s rim, stretching it just the slightest bit -- </p><p>“Ohhhhh,” one of them said, though Tharkay could not tell which, and “Yes, <em> yes,” </em> and then “oh, please, yes, just <em> there, </em> just…” and that current of empathy was back, rising between them again, intensifying and heightening it all: for while it certainly felt good to grind against Laurence’s beautifully muscled backside, it was indescribably, <em> explosively </em> pleasurable to know that in so doing Tharkay was making <em> Laurence </em> feel good, that Laurence wanted this just as much as he did. </p><p>“You --” </p><p>
  <em> -- you deserve this --  </em>
</p><p>“Fuck, <em> yes --”  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- truth-keeper, bright soul --  </em>
</p><p>“Aaagghhhh --” </p><p>
  <em> -- you are treasured --  </em>
</p><p>“Hhhhhaaaaaaaaaahhhh --” </p><p>
  <em> -- you deserve to feel good --  </em>
</p><p>And then -- it had happened blindingly fast -- he was setting his teeth against Laurence’s skin, and Laurence was shuddering and jerking, gasping out “T-Tenz--” … Laurence was coming to crisis for him, for <em>him -- </em>and that was enough to tip him over the edge <em>--</em> <em>ours --</em> clutching at Laurence’s hip -- <em>yes, yes -- </em> holding him there while they spent themselves against each other <em>-- ours, yes, ours. </em></p><p>
  <em> Yes, yes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yes…  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>…he was drifting, floating; he was listening to their shared breath: they had fallen into rhythm, together. They were warm; they were safe <em> -- in safety promise to give no less than full measure -- </em> they were both shaking all over, head to toe. </p><p>Tharkay stretched to retrieve a handkerchief, wiping his thighs, and then curled back in to hand it off. When Laurence was done, Tharkay hooked an arm around his waist and nosed in close; they were still trembling, both of them. “Are you well?” he whispered. </p><p><em> “Christ, </em> no,” said Laurence, his voice breaking: not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “Not for a long while, I think.” He kissed Tharkay’s fingertips. “But yes.” </p><p>Tharkay pressed his lips to the back of Laurence’s neck. “These things are true,” he whispered: even his voice was quavering. “We are here, we are here together, and… and if we are not quite well, still we are here --  we are ourselves, and we deserve to feel good, we deserve this.” Perhaps if he said it enough times, they might start to believe it. “We deserve this.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> *** </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Flying in the dark toward unknown ships, carrying a thousand eggs… and not knowing whether you, Tenzing, had made it safely.” </p><p>“They were not eggs.” A few breaths, and then… </p><p>“Prussians,” said Laurence. “And Arkady and his pack… we had to get past the Fleur de Nuit?”</p><p>“Yes,” said Tharkay. “You had the idea to drug her food, and I carried it out.” </p><p>“I let you go alone,” said Laurence. “Left you to fend for yourself…” </p><p>“You trusted me to go before you, to make our escape possible,” said Tharkay. “You trusted that I would find you again, and I trusted that you would not leave me behind.” </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>He woke, or thought he did. सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! </p><p>The wave -- it rose, it rose -- he could not breathe -- <em> no, no -- </em>it was pulling the sand from beneath him, he was sinking -- “No, please -- no -- ” he could not keep himself here, he was being dragged out by the tide -- “Anchor’s aweigh,” he said, and giggled. </p><p>His aji was cradling him close, humming -- no, it was not his aji; it was a deeper rumble, and the melody was not quite right -- “सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !” -- was someone singing?  </p><p>“You are here,” said a voice, and there was a warm hand on the back of his neck. “You are here, oh, Tenzing, Tenzing: lodestone, wayfinder, storyteller...” </p><p>He sought out the heartbeat, the breath which would sustain him -- the arms which would hold him here, in the present… “Tenzing, dear one -- honored teacher, pattern-maker, truth-keeper -- these things are true, Tenzing: you are yourself, you are here, and I am here with you.” </p><p>… Laurence. Laurence was here; Laurence’s voice was a lifeline, keeping him from being washed away. “-- Tenzing, bright star, my soul’s compass: we are here together.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Mercia.” </p><p>“Memory.” Always memory.</p><p>He opened his arms. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Kindly do not flatter yourself,’” said Laurence. “‘We came to rescue Temeraire.’” </p><p>Tharkay smiled against Laurence’s skin. “Danzig, on the ramparts.” </p><p>“I thought you were making a jest, at the time,” whispered Laurence. “But you weren’t.” </p><p>“No,” said Tharkay. </p><p>“You were <em> protecting </em> him, even then.” </p><p>“Well, Wringe and Arkady’s motives were not nearly so pure,” said Tharkay, snorting. “But yes, of course I was.” </p><p>“You have been protecting him from the start,” said Laurence. “You were protecting him from me.”  </p><p>“From all of it,” said Tharkay. “Including you, yes.”   </p><p>“Temeraire needed protection from <em> me.” </em> There was anguish in Laurence’s voice.  “I… I had not realized, then, what it meant: the responsibility, the charge laid upon me by his -- his <em> love, </em> his perfect trust in my word… I <em> harmed </em> him; I was <em> using </em> him, just as they were… ”</p><p>“You learned, Will.” He kissed Laurence’s temple.  “You grew, and you changed; and when you were faced with the choice, you chose Temeraire.”  </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Laurence’s thumb was drawing a line down Tharkay’s spine: an offer. “The eucalyptus grove.”</p><p>“Memory,” said Tharkay, and reached for the oil. </p><p>He turned back to push Laurence flat and settle astride his hips. Seizing Laurence’s wrist to smear oil across his palm, Tharkay said, “You took us in hand, just like this -- ” and plunging Laurence’s hand down to clasp them together he continued, “ -- and it felt good, you made me feel <em> good, </em> Laurence, you made us both feel so good…” </p><p>“Tenzing,” gasped Laurence, for Tharkay had begun to roll his hips. </p><p>“Yes,” said Tharkay, bending low to speak directly into Laurence’s ear. “You said that too.” Tharkay was already moving his hand to cover Laurence’s mouth before Laurence cried out at this; and then he was pushing, thrusting, grinding in earnest into Laurence’s hand down below, sliding against Laurence’s skin.</p><p>Laurence’s eyelashes fluttered, pale silver in the dim light. Laurence was looking up at him, he was -- oh, oh <em> fuck </em> -- </p><p>It was <em> intoxicating, </em> the way Laurence just -- just <em> gave himself over </em> like this, surrendering, ceding to Tharkay the burden of control, of command -- just as he had done on the <em> Allegiance, </em> or in Istanbul… trusting in Tharkay so completely, <em> trusting </em> that Tharkay would only make him feel good, that no harm would come to him -- <em> ohhhhh </em> -- Tharkay pushed his hand against Laurence’s chest, palmed the muscle there. <em> God, </em>the strength, all that strength… he swooped down to take Laurence’s nipple between his teeth. </p><p>Laurence was arching, moaning in the back of his throat -- writhing beneath him, straining upwards -- his hand was still around them both, stroking almost convulsively -- </p><p>And then Laurence was reaching for Tharkay’s wrist, and Tharkay raised himself up to stare, because Laurence was -- Laurence had -- oh, <em> ohh </em> -- Laurence had taken Tharkay’s <em> hand </em> -- his mangled hand, with its half-broken fingers -- and placed it at his own neck. </p><p>There was no mistaking the gesture, and yet… Tharkay searched out Laurence’s eyes as best he could in the darkness, and put the barest hint of pressure into his fingertips. “Yes?” he whispered. </p><p>Laurence responded by moaning in assent, a sort of “Mmmmm-hmmmph,” vibrating against Tharkay’s hand over his mouth, and then he lifted his chin, further baring himself --  </p><p>Light exploded behind Tharkay’s eyes. Laurence wanted -- Laurence wanted his - Laurence wanted his <em>hand </em>at his<em> throat,</em> Laurence wanted <em>his </em>hand at <em>his throat -- </em>oh, fuck, <em>Laurence</em> <em>wanted his hand -- </em>“You honor me,” Tharkay ground out: steel striking flint, and pressed his fingers to Laurence’s beating pulse.  </p><p>Laurence rumbled, deep in his chest. A frisson ran through them; Tharkay did not know where it started -- <em> ohhhh yes, yes </em> -- but it was pleasure shared: pleasure multiplied -- God, it felt -- “Will,” said Tharkay, and he did not know what his voice was doing -- <em> the line of Laurence’s neck, lit by flames from below -- </em>Laurence was moaning without cease, open-mouthed against Tharkay’s hand, voice wavering and breaking in turns, and all the while clutching at Tharkay’s hip, and taking them both in hand… </p><p>-- <em> Laurence’s pulse in the firelight, ruddy gold shading to pale cream --   </em></p><p>Laurence, writhing in pleasure, Tharkay’s hand at his throat <em> -- </em> he found Laurence’s eyes, holding him there, pinning him in it -- “You -- just you, Will, as -- as yourself, just as you are, just like this --” <em> I value your company for its own sake </em> -- Tharkay, tightening his grip just a little more, squeezing the sides of Laurence’s neck, his bones creaking -- “Fuck, it’s enough to -- it’s -- you’re -- enough, you’re <em> more </em> than enough --” He was picking up speed with his hips, and the beating pulse at his fingers was speeding up to match -- Laurence bucked, and Tharkay held him down with -- with no little strength -- <em> ohhhhh </em> -- Laurence’s eyes rolled back in his head -- </p><p>
  <em>  -- perhaps the sole reason I do not hate myself entirely --  </em>
</p><p>“Breathe,” Tharkay panted. “This -- you must, you must breathe, Will, if you want --” Laurence’s nostrils flared. “Yes, good, like the waves, like -- hhhaaaaahhhh <em> God… </em> Laurence, Will, you’re so good, you’re <em> so fucking good </em> -- aaaauuunnhhhhh…” Laurence was breathing, if a little raggedly -- Laurence was looking up at him again, Laurence had taken Tharkay’s fingertips into his mouth…  “I -- oh, <em> fuck, </em> Will --” </p><p>Laurence was thrusting more urgently against him -- Tharkay came down to bite at Laurence’s ear; he could not take the look in Laurence’s eyes -- it was starting, that feeling, gathering low in his gut, the base of his spine, something like a wave coming from a long way off -- <em> you have oriented me to truth -- </em> Laurence’s lifeblood, beating beneath his hand -- <em> you have afforded me latitude to free myself -- </em> “God, Will, <em> aaagghh, </em> Laurence, I -- fuck, I’m,” -- <em> it is an honor and a privilege to know you -- </em>he squeezed Laurence’s neck, just a little harder, and came undone -- </p><p>
  <em> -- - - yes, YES -- -- - - - -  </em>
</p><p><em>-- you need make me no explanations</em> -- <em>you deserve to feel good </em>-- pleasure shared; pleasure multiplied -- <em>not only did you do right in this</em> -- he could feel Laurence beginning to pulsate beneath him -- <em>in a restless sea, we snatch what comfort we can and guard it jealously -- I should be sorrier to lose you than I yet know --</em> <em>you are the only one who could have --</em></p><p>
  <em> --  ---- - - oh, ohhh, fuck  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- -- fuck, yes -- ---  yes -- -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --- --- - - - - --- - - -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --- - - - --- -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --- -- - -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- - -  </em>
</p><p>--</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>-- Tharkay collapsed, placing his mouth just<em> there, </em> just where his fingers had been, and breathed -- breathed, and for a few blessed moments thought of nothing but the pulse beating against his lips. </p><p>He wanted to bite it, to tear it out; he wanted to bare his teeth and roar a challenge to anyone who might mean Laurence harm… he settled for tasting it, the salt and musk of Laurence’s skin -- not enough to leave a mark, just…  just a taste.  </p><p>“Hhhhaaa-uunnnhh,” said Laurence, and shuddered: an aftershock; and slid his hand from between their bellies. </p><p>“Mmmmm-hmmmmmmm,” said Tharkay into Laurence’s neck, and intertwined their legs.  </p><p>All of these soft touches -- the little sounds -- trembling waves: putting themselves back together, in the wake of the release of all that tension -- shared breath, drifting here, together -- in safety, in <em> safety…  </em></p><p>“Are you well?” asked Tharkay, raising himself up on an elbow -- and -- and saw -- Laurence’s fingers were in his own mouth, his hand still dripping -- Laurence had been, he had been -- oh, <em> oh -- </em> Laurence had wanted to <em> taste, </em> too <em> --  </em></p><p>And he <em> saw </em> it, beginning to bloom like algae across Laurence’s face: the hurt and uncertainty of a gawky youth, standing alone, naked and freezing in the surf -- <em> how do you bear it -- </em> and then, right on its heels, like clockwork: shame and disgust, the self-hatred which they had been fighting together, each on the other’s behalf, all the long way from the mountains, all the long way from -- from -- <em> do not apologize for this -- </em> no, <em> no, </em>it could not be borne.  </p><p>Tharkay bent and licked a long stripe across the smear of their commingled seed on Laurence’s belly, and as he did so he unabashedly met Laurence’s eyes: <em> there is no shame to be had here.  </em></p><p>Laurence’s face crumpled. He looked up and away, one fist at his mouth, but with the other hand he found Tharkay’s elbow and tugged. Tharkay folded down onto him: an aegis, pressing Laurence down into the camp-bed. He bit at Laurence’s ear. “I’ve got you,” he said, and placed a palm at the back of Laurence’s neck. “I am here, we are here, we are here together.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“Stars above, I cannot even remember the last time I truly <em> laughed.”  </em></p><p>“Sydney, for my part,” said Laurence. “I dreamt of it, not long since.” </p><p>“Ha!” -- <em> Laurence’s eyes, wide with a child’s innocent guilt -- </em> it <em> had </em> been very funny, after all. “And the lizard who vanquished the spider.” </p><p>“She really did look very like,” said Laurence. </p><p>“And fought like her, too,” added Tharkay. </p><p>Laurence sighed. “I suppose laughter is harder to come by, these days.”</p><p>Tharkay raised himself up to look at Laurence’s face <em> -- in a restless sea, we snatch what comfort we can -- </em> Laurence was looking back at him like <em> that, </em> as ever -- that current, that particular current of empathy was rising between them -- Tharkay felt himself being drawn in closer -- and he made a decision. </p><p>“I am here with you,” he whispered into those lovely eyes. “We are here together.” He stroked a thumb over Laurence’s eyebrow, lifted his knee for maximum effect, and --</p><p>
  <em> b-b-brrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!  </em>
</p><p>There was absolute silence for about two seconds, and then -- </p><p>“EURGHHHH -- !” Laurence shoved at his shoulder. </p><p>Tharkay rolled off him, limp with glee. “<em> Ahhahaha </em> -- ohhh, I wouldn’t --” he cautioned as Laurence made to lift the covers. </p><p><em> “Euuuuuuuuurrrrrrrghhhhhhhh </em> aaaaaahhhhhhhahaaahaha -- oh -- <em> ahaahahhhhahahahahahahaaa -- </em> really, Tenzing, how disgraceful -- aaaagggghhhhhh, <em> hhaaaaaaaahahahaahahaha -- </em> you scoundrel, you -- <em> rascal -- </em>aaahahahaha -- ”</p><p>“Shhhhhhhhhskskskskskkkkkkkaahaha,” said Tharkay, and he could not catch his breath for laughing. “Shhhh, Will -- ahaha<em> hahahaaaaaa -- shhhh, </em>you’ll wake -- ”  </p><p>“Laurence? Is something the matter?” Temeraire’s booming voice was in turn like to wake the whole camp -- </p><p>“Oh! -- <em> ohhhaaaaaaaaahhahaahaha </em> --  oh, now you’ve done it -- !” </p><p>“Aaaahhh, ahahahaha, ahhhhahahhahhhsskkkksksksksksk -- ” </p><p>“Shhhhh, shhhhh -- ” </p><p>“What’s so funny?” Tharkay stuffed his fist in his mouth, shaking with it -- <em> oh, </em>his ribs -- the laughter had a vicious undertow, a slightly hysterical edge -- but it was all right, it was all right, Laurence would not let him shake himself apart -- </p><p>“It is nothing, my dear,” called Laurence, wiping at his eyes. His arm slid around Tharkay’s ribcage. “Pray go back to sleep.”  </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Roland: omg captain they gave you the Deluxe Fantasy Suite lolololol<br/>Laurence: yep that looks right</p><p>Laurence: *emotional honesty and vulnerability*<br/>Tharkay: *Dutch ovens* </p><p> </p><p>References: </p><p>Gabriele Sommer and Abel Lupapula. Selected Proceedings of the 42nd Annual Conference on African Linguistics, 2012, ed. Michael R. Marlo et al., 266-277. Somerville, MA: Cascadilla Proceedings Project.</p><p>Some Nepalese photojournalists I’ve been following:</p><p>@sabrinadango ← covering youth protests happening in Kathmandu right now, among other things<br/>@aerawbic ← likewise covering protests<br/>@pramin.osiris ← does absolutely gorgeous work with reflections and ways of seeing</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Vyazma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: this chapter contains references to past instances of self-harm in addition to a brief cave flashback. Make sure all lies well. </p><p>But also thank goodness we’re finally here because a) this is the last of the Torture Recovery Arc and b) you know what’s coming, get excited y’all </p><p>The song I looped endlessly while editing this one was Victorious by Janelle Monae. </p><p>Any dialogue marked with an asterisk* is lifted directly from canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Vyazma ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or,</b>
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  <b>Our men make waves </b>
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  <em> Open.  </em>
</p><p><em> Close. </em> </p><p>He sat just outside the circle gathered in the pavilion, half-shadowed and quiet in the crook of Temeraire’s forearm, flexing his hands. His fellows’ voices surrounded him, having the same conversation they’d been having over and over and over and <em> over, </em> these last weeks; Tharkay listened with only half an ear. <em> Open. Close. Breathe. Open, close. </em> The pain in his hands was beginning to turn toward the <em> good </em> kind of ache, of exerted muscles and reawakening limbs, rather than the crackling wrongness of exposed nail beds and broken bones. <em> Open, close. </em>They had been here long enough to mark his hands’ progress: too long, but the Russian high command would let Napoleon run roughshod over the Kremlin before they changed their minds: before they accepted a neighbor’s help, before they admitted the possibility of a rival empire’s superiority in any arena. </p><p>He began to run through what he could remember of the mudras Preeti had taught him --  Pathakam: hand up, palm flat, fingers together. Tirupathakam: bend the ring finger -- slowly, slowly; all others must stay straight. Ardhapathakam: now the pinky, bent to join it -- <em> marigold petals and fluttering hands, sandalwood smoke curling from a censer -- </em> here, here, he was <em> here, </em>with the tent and the cushions and his fellows -- </p><p>Useless. Here they were, spinning themselves into butter with a fighting force that might turn the tide of the war -- a force which he and Laurence and Temeraire had fought and bled and nearly <em> died </em> to raise -- and it would all be for naught, because another damned empire refused to accept the idea that there might be gaps in their thinking; for if <em> they </em> had not thought of it, if <em> they </em>could not conceptualize it, surely it could not exist. </p><p>The affliction of empires: destructive ignorance masked as national pride -- Kutuzov and the rest would only ever see what they expected to see. It would not help anyone to be offended by it -- it never did; and besides, there was a pattern here: they might use it instead, if only Tharkay could figure out how. </p><p>Kartarimukham: the tongs -- <em> inhale. </em> Padmakosam: the lotus bud -- <em> exhale. </em>Mayuram: the peacock… </p><p>“Laurence,”* Tharkay said suddenly, interrupting the flow of conversation. His fellows, like a flock of geese, all turned to look at him as one. “Do you have those particularly magnificent robes with you somewhere?”* </p><p>That overset them -- Temeraire ordering Roland to fetch the robes, Laurence protesting, Gong Su falling in with Laurence in his polite and unyielding adherence to imperial custom, Temeraire looking to General Chu for support while Tharkay waited patiently for the waves in his mind to recede and expose the shoreline; for the story to make itself clear to him… </p><p>“Oh no,” said the general, shaking his mane in refusal. “You are not going to get me to quarrel with the crown prince’s envoy: I am keeping out of it. You are a Celestial and he is a prince; <em>you </em>can disagree. I am just an old general who wants a quiet life, and to retire to a place in the mountains.”* The general caught Tharkay’s eye, and -- and oh, there it was: a pattern he could weave -- a pattern which <em>only</em> he could weave -- <em>oh,</em> he might feel almost like himself… </p><p>“If I may cut your Gordian knot,” he chimed, interrupting once more in pure drawing-room crystal. “Bring down the robes, Roland. You are not going to wear them, Will. You are going to lend them to me.”*  </p><p>
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</p><p>The comb was soothing against his scalp. “This one should be rather simple for you, dear fellow,” Tharkay drawled. “Especially as we do not have time to shave the tonsure; I shall have to tilt the hat forward, I suppose. At least the plume will be distracting enough.” </p><p>Laurence did not share his humor. “It is a long way to their command.” <em> Dear </em>Laurence, whose well-bred manners would never permit him to question Tharkay’s judgment outright, but who could not help expressing concern… </p><p>For it was true -- Tharkay’s plan would work in part because he had not been widely seen; he had not been seen because he had barely left the tent -- because he had barely had enough <em> strength </em> to leave the tent. He had been building his endurance, these last weeks, but he yet grew exhausted just crossing the length of the pavilion, much less the camp. </p><p>Now Tharkay shrugged: he had long been accustomed to accomplishing his objective at any cost to himself; he would do that which was necessary regardless of the personal consequences -- he and Laurence both would. They understood this about one another, even <em> prized </em>it as a shared trait: it had ever bound them together. “You will be there the whole time, just behind me.” </p><p>Laurence met his eyes in the mirror. “I will be there.” </p><p>
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</p><p>The collar was tight around his neck; the silk weighed heavy on his shoulders. The gold ornaments dragged at the queue Laurence had braided. “Oh,” said Tharkay. “Oh, these are…” he swayed, reaching out -- </p><p>Laurence caught his elbow and helped him to sit on the camp-bed, kneeling before him. Tharkay looked down into those eyes, blue as the waves, just now full of indecision -- yes, indecision, and fear… and he knew, he <em> knew </em> what Laurence would say next, and he <em> could not </em> allow it -- risk was a fundamental part of their lives, of their <em> friendship, </em>even: Laurence could not be permitted to place his concern for Tharkay’s personal safety above their shared goal. </p><p>He tried heading him off at the pass. “You look as wretched as a cat, Will. You need not borrow so much trouble; I dare say we will be run out of camp at bayonet-point before ever we announce ourselves.”* </p><p>As usual, Laurence bulled right past his attempt at deflection. “Are you certain you wish to go forward with this?” <em> -- the scent of blooming jasmine: this is no service you owe -- </em>“If the Russian command are determined to reject help offered with an open hand, it need not be our concern to deliver it to them in the face of all obstacles which they put before us.”* </p><p>“And go back to China, with three hundred dragons at our back?” He raised an eyebrow, making one more attempt at humor. “No, Laurence; it would be an unconscionable waste, and I find I have committed too much to the enterprise to see it fail now.”* Laurence’s expression did not change. </p><p>Those eyes, clear and deep, like sunlight shining through the sea: <em> oh, </em> that earnest sincerity… Tharkay clasped Laurence’s hands in his and did not stop himself from matching it. “You must know, Laurence, that if we cannot stop Napoleon here, likely we can never stop him. If he has time to establish a Kingdom of Poland, and feed it the rest of Prussia little by little; if he can ship over a hundred Incan dragons--”* He did not say: <em> if the three of us cannot find a way stop him, here and now, no-one ever will -- </em>but after a moment Laurence bowed his head to kiss Tharkay’s fingertips, and Tharkay knew it had landed all the same.</p><p>He lay a hand atop Laurence’s head. “And besides,” he said softly, carding his fingers through waves of spun gold -- <em> a benediction, a swaying puddle of lamplight on a creaking ship </em> -- “You will be there, guarding my back.” Risks had ever been a fundamental part of their friendship: they took them <em> together, </em>always. </p><p>Laurence looked up, lovely eyes blazing with resolve. “I will be there.”  </p><p>
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</p><p>“I will not ask again whether you are certain.” Laurence was poised at the point of exiting their sanctuary. </p><p>“But,” said Tharkay. He knew what would come next. </p><p>“But I <em> shall </em> reiterate once more that your bravery and character will never be diminished in my eyes, no matter your actions this day or any other,” said Laurence with perfect seriousness. </p><p>Tharkay rolled his eyes. “Ah, well, in <em> that </em> case.” </p><p>He swept past Laurence to stride from the tent. </p><p>
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</p><p>Bravado carried him to the edge of their camp. Laurence had fallen in to flank him, just over his right shoulder; Gong Su was at his left; and the others -- Ferris, Dyhern, and the rest -- arrayed themselves behind him. Two Jade Dragons went before them, carrying General Chu’s enormous banner.  </p><p>It was all right, for a while; the trouble began when he ran out of breath, just inside the Russian perimeter. He could not maintain his pace <em> and </em> continue breathing, but the rhythm of his steps, of his confident stride -- it must continue; it was all that was keeping him going -- he could not get enough air, he could <em> not -- </em>their eyes, their eyes were on him, their eyes were stripping him bare -- </p><p>The collar was tight around his neck; his arms were spread wide by the shackles at his wrists, chained to the walls of the cave. He stood, naked, on cold stone -- cold, cold, so cold -- the water had been so <em> very </em> cold, and the poker so <em> very </em> hot. The salt was burning in his eyes, on his back -- their eyes were on his back; their eyes were on his front -- the iron poker having cooled, they had beaten him with it instead; and now it was prodding, poking at him -- salt water streamed from his eyes: he was not here, he was not <em> here </em>…  </p><p>“So you were not born one of them,” said one of his captors. “Though it seems someone tried, later on.”</p><p><em> Breathe, breathe, you must breathe. </em> There was a familiar rhythm at his back. <em> Breathe.  </em></p><p>The cold burned; he was not <em> here… </em> no, he was not <em> there, </em> he was <em> here -- </em> he was here with Gong Su over one shoulder and Laurence over the other -- he was here with the silk collar, not the cold shackles; with <em> gold </em> ornaments, not iron chains -- and -- and -- <em> breathe with me -- </em> yes, he <em> found </em> it, a cadence which sustained him: he found that could <em> breathe, </em> he could breathe like the waves, the waves were washing through the cave, the waves were washing it all away -- </p><p>Tharkay stepped out of his chains, toward his captors -- and then he was walking <em> through </em> them, he was walking <em> out… </em> </p><p>-- he was <em> here </em> with the robes and the Russians and the long path to Kutuzov ahead -- he was here with the banners streaming in the wind, beneath an open sky -- he was <em> walking; </em> he was breathing in time with his steps; and behind him Laurence had fallen in stride, into rhythm, yes, the one which had sustained them all the long way from the mountains. </p><p>These things were true: he was here, he was himself, and he had left the cave. He had <em> left </em> the <em> cave: </em> he was walking, flanked by his fellows and announced by dragons, through the Russian camp. <em> Yes.  </em></p><p>The air was cold, here, and the silk robes dragged at him -- Tharkay fought to keep himself upright, to keep himself walking straight… he was walking, he was <em> here </em> and he was walking; he must keep walking, but it was so very cold, the waves dragging at him were so <em> very </em> cold… </p><p>He was walking through the Russian camp, and their eyes were on him -- their eyes were following him, staring in puzzlement; as ever was his lot… puzzlement, which would lead to suspicion, followed by rejection, betrayal, abandonment… </p><p>The waves -- the <em>waves</em> -- the cold salt water burned: he stood alone in the surf, naked and freezing beneath a waning moon, and his fellows were pointing at him -- cruel laughter rang in his ears; the waves were coming, the waves were <em>coming,</em> would overtake him -- the sand was slipping out from beneath his feet; he was sinking -- he would drown, he would <em>drown -- no, no -- </em>he must not falter<em> -- no, please -- </em>but all of their eyes were on him; he was stripped bare -- they would see that he did not belong; they would <em>see</em> that he was an imposter -- who did he think he was? he was no <em>prince,</em> to be followed or respected -- 沒有, 沒有 <em>--</em> he was nobody, <em>nobody --</em> <em>you have named yourself </em>沒有 -- </p><p>沒有, 沒有 -- they were pointing, they were laughing, their cruel eyes were on him -- the cold salt water burned -- he had never had any other name…  </p><p>沒有, 沒有 !</p><p>沒有 ! </p><p><em> You have named yourself </em>沒有 -- </p><p>...沒有什麼不可能: <em> you taught me that, too.  </em></p><p>Oh, <em> oh…  </em></p><p>
  <em> Nothing is impossible.  </em>
</p><p>There was yet one more set of eyes on him, bright eyes which had seen him stripped naked in all his broken ugliness and shame -- <em> lodestone to truth -- </em> steady eyes, which had held him in all his hurts and sharp shattered pieces and helped him to mend himself with tenderness and <em> devotion; </em> had looked upon him with -- with <em> reverence, </em> afterward, and had called it an <em> honor… </em> </p><p>He was <em> here. </em> He was here, with Gong Su over one shoulder and Laurence over the other, and there was a spark inside him, fueled by that knowledge; for Laurence <em> knew </em> him inside and out, Laurence had <em> named </em> him, and still Laurence looked at him like <em> that. </em> </p><p>Tharkay stepped through the cold salt waves, out of the shifting sands, past his so-called fellows -- he lifted his chin and stared back, challenging all of the staring eyes as he swept through the Russian camp: they <em> would </em> see a prince. </p><p>Their puzzlement was turning not to suspicion but to shock, yes, shock and just a <em> hint </em> of awe, and no little degree of reluctant intimidation. Tharkay felt the smile begin to curl across his face; and he saved it for later, folded it and tucked it away into the corners of his mouth.</p><p>Oh, yes. They saw a prince. </p><p>He was walking onward, upward, and he might as well be flying. The silk no longer dragged: it was a sail, pulling him along -- the winds were carrying him; he was floating on air -- those currents, flowing through him: the tailwind of Laurence’s regard and his own internal flame, fed by it -- stoked by the breath, the steady rhythm which had sustained them all the long way from the mountains. </p><p>These things were true: his aji had named him; Laurence had named him; he had named <em> himself </em> -- not 沒有, no -- Tenzing, <em> Tenzing. </em> Tenzing Tharkay. His breath was a song in the cold air, the winds were singing his name, his <em> name… </em> wayfinder, truth-keeper, lodestone: <em> Tenzing. Tenzing.  </em></p><p>They were nearly there. The command tent was in sight, but <em> oh, </em> he was so dizzy, and the hill -- the hill was so <em> very </em> steep -- his vision clouded, but it made no matter: he could sense Laurence’s presence at his shoulder, guiding him -- if he followed Laurence’s lead, if he kept Laurence at his back, he would be headed in the right direction; Laurence would not let him wobble; Laurence would not steer him awry… and then, suddenly, Laurence stopped. </p><p>He had… he had made it. He was standing before them; and their eyes were on him, stripping him bare, staring… </p><p>Someone was poking at him. “What’s wrong with your snake?” </p><p>His grandmother slapped Ambrose’s hand away. “You must not be rude to your cousin George,” she said. “He cannot help having been born uncivilized.” </p><p>He sneered at them. <em> Sneered.  </em></p><p>He was Tenzing Tharkay. </p><p>He was standing before the Russian command with Gong Su over one shoulder and Laurence over the other and he raised one haughty eyebrow, staring, <em> sneering… </em> he surveyed them, yes, arrayed before him in all their rotten mess -- petty aristocrats squabbling amongst each other, allowing personal prejudices to take precedence over protecting their <em> home, </em>their people… he did not have to fake the contempt he knew was apparent in his expression, not one bit. </p><p>The crowd of commanders was silent, staring at him. Tharkay was fixing them with his raptor’s gaze, and -- and <em> oh: </em> he felt like <em> himself, </em> for they saw naught but what he showed them, and they quailed before him. </p><p>
  <em> Yes.  </em>
</p><p>He was Tenzing Tharkay: shapeshifter, storyteller, pattern-weaver. </p><p>He tilted his head, <em> just </em> the slightest bit, and did not take his eyes off the gaggle of commanders.</p><p>“I think that will do,” he said to Laurence in Mandarin, over his shoulder.  “You had better be the first to break the silence.”* </p><p>
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</p><p>Elation, pure and simple, carried him back to their pavilion; only sheer pigheaded stubbornness got him inside their tent, but he made it nevertheless -- and as soon as the flaps were closed behind them, Tharkay put out a hand -- <em> oh, </em> there went his legs -- but it was all right, it was <em> all right, </em> because Laurence would not let him fall -- Laurence was there, Laurence had taken his arm, Laurence was supporting him, holding him up… <em> breathe, breathe… </em>it came easier, now. </p><p>Tharkay let the smile bloom across his face: a long-absent friend. <em> “ </em> Well, <em> that </em> went brilliantly.” </p><p><em> “You </em> went brilliantly,” said Laurence, and scooped Tharkay full into his arms. “You were brilliant, Tenzing.” </p><p>Tharkay’s head fell onto Laurence’s shoulder. “I was, wasn’t I,” he murmured as Laurence strode across the tent, through the silk curtains. </p><p>“You were,” said Laurence, kneeling to lay Tharkay upon the camp-bed. “You <em> are.” </em>There was a particular chord in the low rumbling notes of his voice, a certain current… “Are you well?” </p><p>“Oh, I do tolerably, thank you,” Tharkay drawled, grinning up into Laurence’s bright eyes, harmonizing with the rising tide: the whispering grove. </p><p>He saw it land -- Laurence’s breath caught, and his eyes darkened, and then he was turning away to whisk the curtains closed. A thin shiver of anticipation thrummed up Tharkay’s spine. </p><p>Laurence knelt again beside him, and then his lips were at Tharkay’s temple, hands sliding over his chest, warm even through the silk. “Is there aught you require, my liege?” </p><p>“You may undress me,” said Tharkay in a voice like crystal, like starlight. </p><p>“Aaaahhhnnnnnggggghhhhhh,” said Laurence, and bit his ear while his hands worked at the robes. </p><p>“You will be needed at command,” Tharkay warned, and then, right on cue -- </p><p>“Captain Laurence?” It came from outside the tent. </p><p>“Hang them,” said Laurence. He put his mouth to Tharkay’s exposed neck, ran it along the line of muscle extending to his shoulder. “Hang the command, hang the war…” </p><p>“Sir?” Roland, outside the curtains. “You’re needed at command.” </p><p>“A moment,” Laurence called. Their eyes met -- <em> desire, weighed against better judgment -- </em> there could be no question. They had always made the same choice, always would: <em> aa’AAArrrRRrrcq.  </em></p><p>“I will manage,” said Tharkay, and pulled at one of the ties. </p><p>Laurence’s eyes were on him; Laurence’s eyes were bright -- and then Laurence had put his hand to Tharkay’s cheek and leaned in swiftly to kiss him on the jaw, hard and fierce. “I would follow you <em> anywhere.” </em> </p><p>He blinked -- and Laurence was gone, leaving only traces of whispering eucalyptus and blooming jasmine drifting in his wake.</p><p>
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</p><p>Despite his best efforts, Tharkay fell asleep before Laurence came to bed. </p><p>It was not much of a loss, however: waking up later that night to Laurence’s hands on his skin was a special kind of delicious. Laurence had not even put out the light before sliding into the camp-bed, warm and gentle, reaching for him, speaking his name: “Tenzing.” </p><p>Tharkay smiled and stretched, arching into those hands, that touch. “Will,” he said, opening his eyes to ruddy gold and soft shadows. “Have we knocked some sense into them at last?” </p><p> “I hope so.” Laurence placed a kiss just beneath his ear. “Tenzing.” </p><p>“Yes?” Laurence’s hand was creeping down his belly. Tharkay allowed his legs to fall open and his hips to roll up, encouraging. </p><p>“I -- <em> Tenzing,” </em>Laurence said against his skin. With one hand he brought Tharkay’s hand up to his mouth; and with his other he began to stroke -- “Tenzing.” </p><p>Tharkay closed his eyes, and allowed Laurence to make him feel good. </p><p>
  <em> Yes.  </em>
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  <em> Ohhhhhh, yessss…  </em>
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  <em> Mmmmmmm-hhhmmmmmmm…  </em>
</p><p>He did not much remark upon it when Laurence went from kissing his fingertips to putting them between his lips -- but then Laurence had taken Tharkay’s fingers full into his mouth and was -- was -- using his tongue, his -- plunging, dipping, <em> swallowing -- </em>and Tharkay’s eyes rolled. “Hnnnnnnnggggghhhhhh.” </p><p>“Mmmmmmmmmmmmph,” said Laurence, and it vibrated up Tharkay’s fingers, through his hand and wrist and right up his arm; he twisted and writhed, and Laurence’s hand stayed on him and <em> stroked, </em> and he looked up into Laurence’s face, at Laurence’s lips soft around his fingers, at Laurence’s eyes on him, brimming with desire -- <em> oh, </em> it was good, it was <em> so </em>good. </p><p>And then Laurence’s voice was back in his ear, low and urgent. “Tenzing,” he said, before dipping his head onto Tharkay’s fingers once more, hollowing out his cheeks -- <em> oh, </em> his lips were soft, <em> so </em> soft and warm and <em> slick </em> and <em> ohhh </em>… “Tenzing, may I?” His meaning was unmistakable. </p><p>“Yes,” Tharkay breathed. Oh yes, he wanted Will’s mouth. “Yes, yes.”</p><p>And then Laurence had pushed the covers aside, had ducked down to put one of Tharkay’s knees over his shoulder, settling between his thighs -- and Tharkay realized that they still had not put out the light -- </p><p>Oh fuck -- oh fuck oh fuck -- there was -- no way Laurence didn’t <em>notice,</em> no way he wouldn’t <em>see -- the boy is not even cut, Albert; what sane Christian would want him? -- </em>but Laurence was looking at him with the same reverence, the same -- <em>though it seems someone tried, later on --  </em>Laurence’s mouth was on him, Laurence was <em>kissing</em> the scar -- <em>when he’s proven himself worthy --</em> “Oh, oh f-- ahh...” -- <em>am I not your son?</em> -- there was blood on his hands, there was blood on his drawers -- <em>you must not hurt yourself</em> <em>--</em> but the memory had no power over him anymore: the waves of pleasure were swelling, were washing it away; <em>oh, </em>Laurence’s <em>mouth </em>was<em> on </em>him -- “Ahhhhh…” --<em> you are treasured you are powerful you are precious Tenzing so precious to me </em>-- all thought dissolved: he was <em>here,</em> he was<em> -- oh Tenzing, Tenzing, you deserve this -- </em>Laurence was keeping him here, Laurence was holding him here, Laurence was <em>anchoring</em> him here… </p><p>“Ah, hahhhhnnnnnmnmnmnnngggghhhhh<em> --</em> Laurence, <em>Laurence</em> -- that feels <em>good, </em>you feel so good<em>…” </em>he gasped out, and Laurence moaned around him, and oh, he could feel it, he could <em>feel</em> Laurence’s voice humming through him… </p><p>Laurence was using his lips, his tongue -- it was good, it felt <em>good</em> -- <em>whose are you? </em>-- and Laurence’s hands slid over his skin, caressing -- his mouth was hot and tender -- <em>compass of my soul brave one dear heart you are ours -- </em>Laurence was looking up at him with bright eyes and it felt <em>so</em> <em>good</em> -- Laurence was -- Laurence was -- oh fuck, his <em>mouth -- </em>and Laurence <em>wanted</em> this, had <em>asked</em> for this: Laurence had wanted to <em>taste</em> him, to give him this pleasure -- <em>it was you, Tenzing, it was your name -- </em></p><p>“Hhhaaaaaaaaannnhh, Will, oh <em> fuck, </em> oh, ohhhhh --” <em> I would follow you anywhere --  </em></p><p>It was starting, he could feel it, a typhoon gathering -- <em>Tenzing, Tenzing </em>-- he keened, high in the back of his throat: Laurence was -- Laurence was -- his back bowed with waves which began to rock him one after another with the force of the divine wind -- and Laurence was <em>still looking at him like that </em>-- Laurence was swallowing him down like -- like a sacrament, a blessing -- fuck, it felt good, <em>yes, </em>it felt good, it felt <em>so</em> <em>good fuck yes good yes yes Will YES -- </em></p><p>
  <em> fuck, oh --  </em>
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  <em> -- Tenzing, Tenzing --  </em>
</p><p>“Will --” </p><p>
  <em> -- oh --  </em>
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  <em> -- Will, yes, YES -- oh --  </em>
</p><p>“Will, <em> Will, </em>I’m --” </p><p>
  <em> oh, fuck, oh fuck oh fuck oh yes oh fuckyes yes yesssss please yes yes y-- -  --   ---  ----  ---------  </em>
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  <em> -  - -  -------------------------------------       ------------------    -------------      ------------------------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- -- - - - - ---- ---- --- ----     ---   ----       - - - - - -     ------ - - - -   --- --- --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- -- - - - - ---- ---- --- ----     ---   ----       - - - - - -     ------ - - - -   --- -- - ----- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ------- ---------  --- - - - -       --------     ----   ---- -- - - - -   -------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- - -- -- ------- - - - ---- ----- ---- ---- - - ---- --- -- ---- -- --   ---- -- -- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- - - - - -  --- -----   ------ -- - - - - - -  -- -- - - --- -     - --- -  - - - - - - --- - - - - - - - ----- - - - -  --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- - - - - -  --- -----   ------ -- - - - - - -  -- -- - - --- -     - --- -  - - - - - - --- - - - - - - - ----- - - - -  --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --- - - - - --- - - - -  ------ - --- -- - -   - - - - -- --- - - - -  - - - -  - - - - - -  - ------ - - - ---- -  -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --- - - - - --- - - - -  ------ - --- -- - -   - - - - -- --- - - - -  - - - -  - - - - - -  - ------ - - - ---- -  -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- - - - - - - - - ------- - --- - -- - ---- - ---  ----  -- ----    ------ -- - - - - -- - - - - - -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- - - - - - - - - ------- - --- - -- - ---- - ---  ----  -- ----    ------ -- - - - - -- - - - - - -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -----  - --  - -- - -- - -- - - ---- ---- - --- ---- ---- -  -- - -- - -- --  -- - -- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -----  - --  - -- - -- - -- - - ---- ---- - --- ---- ---- -  -- - -- - -- --  -- - -- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- - -- ---- - - - ------- ---- ---- - - ---- --- ---- -- -- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- - -- ---- - - - ------- ---- ---- - - ---- --- ---- -- -- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ----- --- ----- ----- ---- ---- -- --- --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ----- --- ----- ----- ---- ---- -- --- --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------  ---- -----  ----- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------  ---- -----  ----- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ----- -- ---- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ----- -- ---- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --------- ----- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- - -  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -------- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ---- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> - </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> - </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> - </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> - </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> -- ohhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ohhhhhh… ohhhhh, fuck, ohh. Oh.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Mmmmmmm-hmmmmm…  </em>He sighed, floating in the aftermath of that flood of pleasure; drifting, drifting on the receding wave...</p><p>
  <em> Oh, yesss…  </em>
</p><p><em> Ohhh… </em>   </p><p>Oh, the tide was washing out, leaving the shore exposed…  </p><p>Oh…  </p><p>Oh.<em> Oh. </em>   </p><p>… Oh. </p><p>Oh, no. </p><p>
  <em> Breathe.  </em>
</p><p>No, please…  </p><p>
  <em> Oh, breathe, you must breathe.  </em>
</p><p><em> Like this, like your strides, like the waves, breathe. </em> It was coming, some new knowledge… some realization, some change in the wind, like the smell of a storm from a long way off… no, <em> no. </em></p><p>“Are you well?” Was someone speaking? </p><p>-- oh, no -- no, <em> no, </em> he must turn away; he could not look at what the tide had left behind <em> …  </em></p><p>Tharkay clenched his teeth shut, pressed his hands over his mouth. <em> Breathe. Breathe, like the waves, like the -- breathe.  </em></p><p>“Tenzing --?” </p><p>He exhaled the scent of it from his nostrils. <em> No. </em></p><p>Laurence’s face appeared above him, blurry for some reason. Tharkay blinked up into eyes wreathed in concern and did not say <em> please, I need…  </em></p><p>“Oh,” said Laurence. “Oh, Tenzing.” </p><p>Tharkay could not answer. He could only reach for Laurence’s hand, yes, and roll over to curl in on himself, pulling Laurence’s arm over his shoulder like a child with a blanket. Laurence came in close behind him. </p><p>
  <em> Breathe, breathe, breathe with me, like this, like the waves.  </em>
</p><p>For all his show of bravery today, Tharkay’s ribs were still fractured; his mind was yet fragile: he could not expand himself to contain any new truths -- if he tried, he would burst. </p><p>Laurence was breathing at his back, wrapped around him with a dragon’s jealous protectiveness, holding him together, anchoring him there. “I am here with you, Tenzing Tharkay. I am here, I am here with you, I’ve got you: we are here together.” </p><p>Tharkay took a great shuddering breath and pressed Laurence’s hand to his mouth, not quite a kiss. His eyelashes were wet. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Apparently Pemberton had utterly failed her assignment, in Brazil; for Tharkay’s orders from Whitehall by way of Maden were more emphatic than ever, and remained that way for months.  </p><p> </p><p><em> Stay in position; maintain cover. Continue to surveil Chinese, Russians, the traitor and his dragon. </em> <span class="u"> <em> Ensure the traitor does not incite further disruption to the natural order. Relay immediately any indication of sedition or conspiracy toward this end. </em>  </span></p><p>
  <em> Send regular reports.  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I can’t blame him for being surprised by me, mind you,” said Gong Su. They were striding through the Russian camp conversing in Cantonese, using light tones which would raise no suspicion to a foreign ear. “I’d have worried for my competence otherwise. But to be <em> this </em> shocked by that obviously planted little dragon…” </p><p>Tharkay shrugged. “He doesn’t have the crooked eye.” </p><p>“More’s the pity,” sighed Gong Su. “It’d save <em> you </em> a conversation, at least.”  </p><p>Tharkay’s fortnightly reports were long, dry, and <em> extremely </em> thorough -- and included only such events as he knew Laurence had already reported on his own, and some little details which might satisfy the small-minded appetites of the Ministry of Intelligence while betraying none of their own interests, as Laurence and Temeraire went around striking chains from Russian dragons -- or trying, rather. </p><p>It had been too little, too late; and now the Russian armies were scrambling, falling back; their forces in utter disarray, their countryside ravaged and their people driven from their homes, and nothing to show for it. </p><p>And Tharkay could not blame them; for he, coward that he was, had been retreating from <em> this </em> particular conversation for -- oh, for years, now. </p><p>It was just that -- for pity’s sake, Granby had caught on in Terra Australis; and Laurence had <em> been </em> part of that exchange! The elder Roland had known since she commissioned him; he and Gong Su had recognized one another before they’d left the Pamirs -- and that was when Tharkay had been <em> trying </em> to maintain his cover. He had made no secret of it since, and still Laurence had always been too polite -- too <em> trusting -- </em>to ever question him, to ever think twice. </p><p>Tharkay blinked, and they were flying above the equator -- <em> the degree to which you close your eyes to that which you should not see -- </em> he blinked again. He wanted to shake Laurence, sometimes -- <em> question everything, EVERYTHING -- </em> because he did not want Laurence to question him <em> now, </em> not really -- <em> I have considered what to make of your behavior -- </em> what he wanted was for Laurence to have <em> already </em> questioned him; he wanted Laurence to have already worked it out -- <em> if I consider only the final consequences of your actions -- </em> because then he would <em> know, </em> one way or the other, what Laurence’s reaction would be -- <em> I like to know if I am doubted --  </em></p><p>He could not broach the subject directly; there was no space inside him for the conversation. If Laurence blamed him -- if Laurence -- he could not, he could <em> not </em> take it, if he were placed in a position of defense, of self-justification… Tharkay was certain Laurence would understand, if he explained, but the damage would already be done, on <em> both </em> sides -- no, he could not bear it if Laurence doubted him, not now -- not after he had proven himself over and over, for <em> years… </em> not after Peking. Not after the mountains. </p><p>“Speaking of,” said Gong Su, and nodded politely to Laurence, who was passing the other way with a group of Russian commanders -- commanders who <em> still </em> had not recognized Tharkay as their mysterious Chinese prince. </p><p>Laurence nodded back, first to Gong Su, then to him. “Captain Tharkay.” </p><p>Tharkay inclined his head. “Captain Laurence.” </p><p>And they kept walking, each of them in their opposite directions. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>***</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“These are very nice,” said General Chu, peering closely at Tharkay’s maps through his lens. “Have you ever been told that you’ve an eye for cartography?” </p><p>Under the table, Laurence placed his hand on Tharkay’s knee <em> -- oh, these are exquisite…    </em></p><p>Tharkay smirked. “Once or twice.” </p><p>“It is a high compliment, coming from a dragon,” said the General. “May I borrow these, to have copies made?” </p><p>Laurence inhaled as if to speak, and Tharkay jabbed him with an elbow.  “It would be my honor, sir,” he said to the general. Laurence dug his thumb into the muscle just above Tharkay’s knee; Tharkay kicked his shin.  </p><p>“Well, they will certainly be useful to our legions; and we’ll make sure to find this guide you spoke of -- Arkady, you say?” said General Chu. Laurence’s hand slid to wrap around Tharkay’s back, resting at his hip. </p><p>“Yes; he is reliable enough, in his way. You will likely find him --” he looked around for -- ah, <em> perfect, </em>Laurence was handing him the caliper. “-- hereabouts. Pray give him my regards.” </p><p>“All this is sounding very promising, but what about the Ottomans?” interjected Gong Su, ever the practical one. </p><p>Tharkay sighed: that <em> was </em> a problem. “To avoid them would be to add superfluous time and distance to the overland crossing; and yet they have allied themselves with the tyrant; you are sure to face opposition from their forces should you attempt to cross their territories.” </p><p>“No point in losing half my soldiers before we get to the real fight; we’ve no quarrel with the Ottomans now, and no wish to start one either, I’m sure.” The general shook his mane. “I suppose we must resign ourselves to losing that time, and hope that it does not tip the balance one way or the other.” </p><p>“Let us not commit to failure just yet,” Tharkay said, and stood; Laurence’s hand fell away. “I will make some inquiries.” </p><p>The problem was not how they acted with one another in front of the Russians, no; nor even was it the discrepancy between the picture of the acquaintance they presented to their not-quite-allies and what went on inside their sanctuary of silk. </p><p>It was what happened in these liminal spaces, in front of their fellows: Laurence catching his hand as easily as breathing, absentmindedly massaging it as they discussed some matter of strategy or supply with Ferris and Dyhern. Or Laurence, pressing himself full along Tharkay’s back as he leaned over his shoulder to look at their maps, lips brushing Tharkay’s temple as he spoke to General Chu. </p><p>These were not the actions of bedfellows; and yet Tharkay knew for a certainty that Laurence was only doing what came naturally to him, that he had not considered or did not realize what significance these gestures might hold. <em>The degree to which you close your eyes to that which you should not see is very nearly delusional, Will -- </em>nothing had changed since their conversation above the equator. </p><p>And yet, <em> everything </em> had. </p><p>Tharkay knew better than to rail at the unfairness of it all: there was nothing to be done. Laurence had always acted with that unconscious impunity granted only to those who would never be doubted: having never thought of himself as an invert or sodomite, and being entirely above any punishment for it by virtue of his rank and position even if he were, Laurence would never consider that his actions might be interpreted in such a light. Tharkay blinked, and they were in a different tent: the sands were howling around them, and Temeraire had asked him about ways of speaking… <em> that is because he is unquestionably a gentleman; he could never be otherwise no matter his words or deeds: but as for those whom birth or circumstance has consigned to a lower standing…  </em></p><p>Yes, those whose position and safety were less certain had to be more vigilant than this. <em> Tharkay </em> had to be more vigilant than this -- he could not afford for any word of their particular bond to get back to his employers; it would only endanger them all further. </p><p>More to the point, he could not afford to let himself interpret Laurence’s actions in any other light. He could not afford to let himself feel any of the feelings which might arise, from those interpretations. </p><p>And yet, and yet, and <em> yet… </em> he could not help it; it was getting harder and harder to douse the tiny answering flame which rekindled itself each time Laurence kissed his fingertips -- it <em> hurt, </em> every time. This could not continue -- he <em> knew </em> that neither of them had the capacity for the conversation, not now, certainly not <em> here, </em> and yet he could no longer contain it alone -- if something did not change soon, Tharkay would speak. He <em> would. </em></p><p>
  <em>I</em>
  <em> would say something to you, on matters as they stand between us...  </em>
</p><p>No. </p><p>He could not. He <em> must </em> not. Not when it might snap both of their fraying minds to confront matters between them, not when the stability of their bond was perhaps the last thing anchoring him to himself, these days. </p><p>But it <em> hurt…  </em></p><p>And so it went, back and forth. </p><p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल !<em> Behold, O Mother Sitala, the piteous state of your people!  </em></p><p>Tharkay retreated from it, from all of it. He dove below the surface of himself and took his feelings with him into the depths: the task before them was paramount; he could not allow himself to be distracted by petty personal matters. No, things must remain as they ever had been between him and Laurence; the borders of their intimacy unchanged. </p><p>And then, as the winds grew colder and the rations leaner, Tharkay grew gladder still that he had not spoken, that they had not upended their balance after all; for it was all they could do to fall into the camp-bed each night, bone-weary and heartsick, and cling to one another for the simple comfort of shared warmth. </p><p> </p><p><br/><br/><br/>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tharkay was sitting at the dressing-table, already packed, when Laurence entered their sanctuary. Laurence stopped short, taking in the sight before him and what it meant. Tharkay stood, holding out a hand; and Laurence stumbled to him. </p><p>नय यात नसा मदु तिय यात वस मदु, च्वने यात बास जित मदु:<sup>11</sup> <em>there was nothing to eat, there was nothing to clothe me, there was no place for me to rest… </em></p><p>Laurence’s face was buried in his shoulder; Laurence’s hands were warm on his back, and Laurence’s voice was wobbly. “Don’t go.” </p><p>Tharkay closed his eyes. “I shan’t.” </p><p>छम्ह मचा लुकुंछिसे, छम्ह मचा ब्यकुंच्यासे, छम्ह मचा लुतुलुसे यने:<sup>4</sup> <em>they led them away, carrying one child on their back, another under their arm, dragging along a third… </em></p><p>Neither of them quite had their breath under control -- holding back tears was its own herculean task; but at least they were here together. </p><p>Laurence pressed warm lips to Tharkay’s neck. “My compass,” he said, and drew back to cradle Tharkay’s face between his hands. </p><p>Laurence’s eyes were on him; Laurence’s eyes were bright and clear; and Tharkay knew, he <em> knew </em> what Laurence would do next -- Laurence would <em> kiss him, </em> Laurence would kiss him and he would <em> break apart, </em> shattered into those same fractured pieces <em> -- </em>he would fly away, lost forever -- he would fall weeping into Laurence’s arms and never, ever leave -- </p><p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! <em> Behold, the piteous state of your people!  </em></p><p>-- and so when it happened, as he had <em> known </em> it would -- when Laurence leaned in, Tharkay turned his face away, just the <em> slightest </em> bit -- </p><p>सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल ! <em> Behold!  </em></p><p>-- and it was enough. </p><p>Laurence halted immediately, and his eyes -- <em> oh -- </em> that screeching, shrieking silence; that jangling chord of hurt, or shame between them -- <em> no -- </em> Tharkay caught his gaze and pinned him there, holding him in it: showing Laurence what he could of his heart, begging him to understand. “‘In times of great need,’” Tharkay said, low and desperate and hoarse, “‘good men cannot rest.’” <em> Please, please remember…  </em></p><p>He saw it land: Laurence’s eyes flickered, and then he was bringing their foreheads together, smoothing a thumb over Tharkay’s cheekbone, tugging at his braid. “You are ever the wiser, Cassandra.” </p><p>A breath -- or sob -- of rueful laughter escaped him. “You begin to see why it is a curse.”</p><p>There was nothing to do but stay there, clinging to each other, foreheads pressed together -- ever bone-weary, ever heartsick; stretching the time for as long as they could. Tharkay breathed, slow and even, and did not weep; and eventually Laurence’s breath evened to match. </p><p>After a long, long while, Tharkay spoke into the haven they had created between them. “When this is --” and his voice broke, <em> just </em> a hairline fracture. “-- when this is done, we’ll go down to the harbor and make our inquiries about becoming privateers.” </p><p>“We’ll spend our lives taking prizes on the high seas.” Laurence’s wavering voice did not even reach the curtains. “We’ll follow naught but our chosen stars, and Temeraire will govern us all.” </p><p>Tharkay sighed: it was a pretty picture. “And now I must take my leave of him, and be on my way.” </p><p>“Come, we shall tell him together.” Laurence wove their fingers together, yes, and together they stepped out into the cold grey morning.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>General Chu: yo your maps are great, can we borrow them<br/>Tharkay: omg yeah of course<br/>Laurence: yOu WiLl LeArN bEtTeR iF YoU dO nOt CoPy<br/>Tharkay: would you kindly shut the FUCK UP  </p><p> </p><p>References: </p><p>Ghuge, Anushka. Mudras used in kathak while dancing and its meaning. https://anushkaghuge.home.blog/2018/08/22/mudras-used-in-kathak-while-dancing-and-its-meaning, accessed Sept 2020. </p><p> </p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p>I went back and forth about including the specific details of Tharkay’s self-harm in this chapter -- is it really necessary for the story? Am I just using it as a flashy plot device? Ultimately I decided to leave it in because, well, I’m writing truthfully about my own experiences, to the extent that it makes sense to do so within the parameters of the narrative. </p><p>(Don’t worry, I’m ok now.) </p><p>&lt;3.  </p><p>With gratitude,<br/>nb***</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Vilna</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song I had on loop while editing this one was Radames' Letter from the musical Aida, because I am an unreformed theater kid: when I think of Sad Men Earnestly Writing Their Feelings, the only voice I hear is Adam Pascal's. (At least this one is better than that travesty Roger sang to Mimi, ugh.) </p><p>Anything marked with an asterisk* is lifted directly from canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<h1>
<b>Vilna</b> ;</h1><p> </p><p>
  <strong>or, </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Our men send their regrets</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>*** </strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Temeraire was quite certain Laurence was not well after all. He was very silent, and spent nearly all morning in his tent, writing letters and arranging his papers as though before a battle.* </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tenzing, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Again Empire Demands a Man Die by My Hand -- Mercy --  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I should Never have been Forced to it Had You been Here; I would have Seen it, or You would have Averted it. My Compass. I am Lost Without You; I am Not Myself.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Should You Receive this, Please, Take Care of Temeraire for me.   </em>
</p><p><em> I am Wretchedly Sorry, and I am </em> <span class="u"> <em> Ever, </em> </span> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yours,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Captain William Laurence </em>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
“No; there is no need,” said Laurence. His voice seemed very far away. “I have killed men in colder weather than this.”* </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Tharkay handed over the packet. “This is for your cousins.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Laurence,  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, I have done it now.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Should I be correct in my suspicions (my Curse!), there is a good chance that you may one day read this Letter; and having become sensible to its probable necessity, it now falls to me to write it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will, You Anchor Me. You keep me Tied to Myself; I trust you Wholeheartedly and Without Reservation. I had not imagined, nor ever allowed myself to hope, that I might know Someone who likewise knows me So Completely. I do not know where I might have Ended, or the kind of person I might Be, had you not given me Your Word, and kept it--Kept It!--and offered me your Loyalty, and your Trust.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am at Peace with our Choices. We have each of us done what we Must, and we put off Temporary Happiness for the chance of Greater Returns; you and I could never have chosen otherwise. There is a word for this, in Durzagh, a sort of Trill - ask Temeraire to translate it for you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please give him my Love, and tell him that I am Sorry to Leave Him. I am, and Remain Always, </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yours, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> T. Tharkay </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> P.S. I hope you will Convey my Gratitude to my Lawyers for the Delivery of this Letter; they have had Much to put up with, these Twenty Years; and now they shall Finally be rid of me.  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Dark eyes searched his face. “What have you done?” </p><p>It took Tharkay a long time to find words in a language she understood. “Only that which was necessary.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Berezina</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm posting this one much earlier than originally intended in honor of T-Rex: hope this helps you through your fast today, if you're observing &lt;3 </p><p>The editing playlist song for this one was Les Feuilles Mortes by Yves Montand, though there will be a point where listening to this will add your experience: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruEvaE6ICtM&amp;list=PLzrFqWDNe1rlLG3HmBd3zfoVxXFAfCbiQ </p><p>Any dialogue marked with an asterisk* is lifted directly from canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Berezina ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tharkay meets catastrophe </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>***</b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tharkay found Temeraire by the sound of his breath: he was coiled tight, covered in burns, unconscious and quite on his own -- Laurence must be foraging. Tharkay dismounted, hobbling his horse to a nearby tree, and settled himself against Temeraire’s flank to wait. He drew his sword, placed it over his knees, and did not sleep.   </p><p>The attack, when it came, was a joke. The man’s pike had reach, true, but he was barely trained; and Tharkay deflected him easily. He felt anger rise in his gorge as the pikeman ran off: the clamor had woken Temeraire. </p><p>“Is that your horse?” His voice was very thin. “Would you mind a great deal if I eat it?”*  </p><p>Tharkay did not need to answer, for Temeraire was already leaping after the fleeing horse, gulping it down in a matter of moments. And anyway, he had no need for it now that he was with Temeraire.</p><p>“I am very sorry, and I will certainly get you another horse, as soon as I ever can; at least, once there are other things to eat.” <em> Dear </em> Temeraire. “But what are you doing here?”*</p><p>“Looking for you.” The crust of snow was above his knees; Tharkay had to break a path to trudge to where Temeraire had landed. “Or rather, for the army you are with: I supposed that a message should reach you quicker, if I found the lines of communication, than I could bring it to Vilna myself. I was able to hire a dragon to bring me to Kiev, but none would go further north than that, nor any closer to the Russian Army.”* </p><p>“Well, they are quite sensible to refuse,” said Temeraire, “for I have never met any people so unfriendly as this, anywhere, at least not when I had not given them <em> cause </em> to be unfriendly.” Oh, he sounded <em> so </em> disheartened -- <em> behold, the piteous state of your people -- </em> “But Tharkay -- I cannot take you to Laurence -- I must go on. I must get to China--”* </p><p>“I beg your very great pardon for interrupting you,” Tharkay cut in: the crystal drawl. “But I think you will find you are mistaken: you must get to France. They stopped in Istanbul with your egg, two days ago. There may yet be a chance to intercept them, I believe, in the Alps.”* As Temeraire took in the information, Tharkay registered the second part of what he had said. “Where is Laurence?” </p><p>“He took a bullet to the ribs,” answered Temeraire miserably. “He is healing, but I did not like to take him; he was still too delicate to be moved.” </p><p>“Ah.” Well, then. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Tenzing.” She opened her arms. </p><p>He stepped into Sara’s embrace. “Oh,” he sighed, “how I have missed you.” Her hands made soothing circles on his back. Tharkay lay his cheek atop her hair and breathed in the familiar scent of oranges and honey and cloves, resting there for a few long moments. </p><p>Finally she drew back, and stood on her toes to kiss him twice, on both cheeks. “That bad?” </p><p>“You have no idea,” he said, returning the kisses. “Alice sends her love.” </p><p>“She already gave me yours.” She offered him her hand. “Come, we’ve made up your room, though for a certainty Ruth will first want to show you all the new books she has acquired since your last -- ” </p><p>“Uncle Tenzing!” A small child with her mother’s mop of dark curls was barreling toward them. </p><p>“Gentle, remember -- !” Sara cautioned, and Ruth stopped short. Tharkay crouched and opened his arms; and Ruth embraced him as if she were handling a new kitten, with all the clumsy tenderness of her four years. </p><p>“I’m glad you’re safe,” she whispered to him, subtle as a dragon. </p><p>He wiped a bit of saliva from his ear. “So am I, dear one.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“What is it? What’s in there?” said Temeraire anxiously; he had not been able to fit through the opening. </p><p>“A cellar of some kind,” Tharkay called up to him. “It may be that the previous occupants left some provisions behind -- pray wait here while I investigate.” </p><p>He began to climb down the ladder -- <em> columns, crumbling into water… the weight of a city, and armed pursuit -- </em> no, he was <em> here, </em>he was here with Sara and the lamp and the trapdoor -- </p><p>“The collection has grown substantially, since last you visited,” she said. “My father has finally come to realize that our heirlooms are more secure here.” </p><p>“He let them out of his vaults?” <em> Breathe, breathe. </em> “And to think of all the times he lectured us about the measures he’d taken…” </p><p>“Ha! That’s fine for the gold,” she said. “This is where we keep the real treasure. Well, and <em> some </em> gold, obviously.” She jumped lightly to the floor and walked over to stand before one of the many iron-bound chests which lined the stone shelves in the narrow room, hewn directly into the city’s bedrock. Tharkay followed, stopping just over her shoulder. “Here’s the one you want -- not even Benjamin knows exactly where they’re kept, though of course he knows they’re in the house.” She unlocked and opened the chest.  </p><p>He stared at them: his <em> books, </em> a chest full of books of his own history, and this not even all of them… those first pained journals, when he had been struggling to reclaim his mother tongue; the prayer-books from his aji and the mangal-kavya Preeti had given him… his logs, yes, undeniable evidence of all his long years as a spy, and Laurence’s first letter… </p><p>Laurence <em> still </em> did not know. </p><p>He had had this argument with himself ten thousand times: Laurence would understand, Laurence would be angry, Laurence would <em> see </em> him, Laurence would turn against him. Laurence’s eyes, Laurence’s beating pulse beneath his fingers and Laurence’s lovely eyes, looking up at him with trust and desire -- Laurence’s pretty eyes, narrowed in accusatory suspicion… if his discovery did not kill him, the uncertainty surely would.  </p><p>Tharkay placed his latest volumes with the rest: years of subterfuge, of deceit. He closed the chest. “Do you ever miss it?” His voice was very small, but it was all right: Sara knew him. </p><p>“Sometimes,” she answered readily. “But I had grown tired of doing others’ work. We are beholden to no one but our G-d and ourselves, Benjamin and I.” She handed him the key. “Well, and our parents, or so they’d like to think. And besides, I wanted a family of my own.” The lock clicked, loud in the silence between them: the truth like a sinking stone, even after all these years. But the twinge of pain, or regret, or wanting -- it was… in a new direction? “She’s the center of our world, now. It’s… different, to have someone who needs me like that. It makes me want to be better, to make the world better for her.” </p><p>Tharkay did not allow himself to consider the implications. He and Sara retrieved his green coat with its gold bars from another chest, and then climbed the ladder and replaced the barrels over the trapdoor, locking the room behind them. They crept along the winding stone passageway and ascended the stairs, and then they emerged into the wine cellar and locked that door behind them, too. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Will you tell me a story?”</p><p>“Not tonight, Temeraire.” He was <em> so </em> tired. </p><p>“But… but you always tell me stories.” Temeraire sounded too weary to be hurt. “Why is tonight different from all other nights?”</p><p>It happened that he was in Istanbul for the first night of Pesach. </p><p>“You need not attend the Seder if you do not wish,” Sara assured him. “Your place at our table shall ever be at my right hand, our honored guest; and yet I am aware that a dinner with all our family and relations may not be what you require, just now.” </p><p>“No, I will come; it will do me some good,” Tharkay replied, like a fool. </p><p>He regretted it during the second cup of wine, when the questions came -- the prayer: four questions, recited by the youngest at the table. </p><p> </p><p>“?מַה נִּשְׁתַּנָּה הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה מִכָּל הַלֵּילוֹת” </p><p> </p><p>Ruth sang, her eyes sparkling. The bright darling grandchild, the glittering star of the gathering -- and this was the first year she had been old enough to ask, to remember. <em> Why is tonight different from all other nights?  </em></p><p>Tharkay remembered when it had been Sara singing the Ma Nishtana, asking those questions. </p><p>“Tonight is different from all other nights, O my star, my dove, because tonight we tell the story,” said Avram, pulling his granddaughter onto his lap.“Tonight we remember that we were slaves to the Pharaoh in Egypt, and the Lord our G-d delivered us with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.” </p><p> </p><p>“.שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אֵין אָנוּ מַטְבִּילִין אֲפִילוּ פַּעַם אֶחָת – הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה שְׁתֵּי פְעָמִים” </p><p> </p><p>Ruth sang out. <em> That on all other nights we do not dip our vegetables even once; yet on this night, we dip twice? </em> She was brilliant, so very brilliant, to have already learned all of the questions to ask, to remember them so well. </p><p>“We dip our <em> karpas, </em> our vegetables, because our ancestors could not,” said Ruth’s aunt. “For savory sauces and sweetmeats were not given to those enslaved.” </p><p>He was barely eighteen, sitting at this very table, listening to them tell the story together in -- in <em> Hebrew, </em> in -- <em> that heathen gabble -- </em> while Sara whispered translations to him -- <em> uncivilized -- </em> but they had not seemed ashamed, not at all; they had <em> wanted </em> her to ask questions -- they had been <em> proud, </em>proud to teach their language and history to their children, proud to sing the story… </p><p>“We dip our <em> karpas </em>into saltwater to remember the tears our people cried,” said Ruth’s great-uncle. </p><p>सुरज कोमजो थाल चिकुं पुना मचा सित, माम बुबां नुग दाया खोल<sup>15</sup> …   <em> A child died of cold, at a place where no sunlight fell. The parents wept, beating their breasts. </em></p><p>“We dip our <em> maror, </em> our herbs, into the sweet paste to celebrate the joy of freedom; the easing of our suffering,” said Ruth’s aji.</p><p>Tharkay was four, and his aji was singing a prayer-song -- a song of praise. He was skipping around a table, and his mother and his father and all of his aunts and uncles and cousins were there, smiling at him with fond exasperation and indulgence. </p><p>Ruth leapt up, too excited to sit still in her grandfather’s lap for long. </p><p> </p><p>“.שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין חָמֵץ וּמַצָּה, הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה – כֻּלּוֹ מַצָּה” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That on all other nights we eat both chametz and matzah; on this night, we eat only matzah? </em>
</p><p>“We were fleeing the Pharaoh’s soldiers, and did not have time even for the bread to rise,” said Sara’s grandmother -- Ruth’s great-grandmother… </p><p>-- नायखिन बाजन थायका, सिपाहीन घेरे याका, कचिमचा पितिनाव छोत:<sup>2</sup> <em>Nairs were appointed to beat the drums and, surrounded by soldiers, the children were driven out of the country -- </em></p><p> -- <em> no, </em> Grandmother Esther had died seven years since; he was <em> here, </em> it was <em> now, </em> he was here <em> now </em>with Sara and Sara’s husband and Sara’s daughter… </p><p> </p><p>“שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִיןשְׁאָר יְרָקוֹתהַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה, מָרוֹר”</p><p> </p><p>Ruth was skipping around the table. <em> That on all other nights we eat many vegetables; on this night, maror?  </em></p><p>“We eat <em> maror, </em> the bitter herb, so that we may never forget the taste of our ancestors’ suffering,” said Sara’s cousin -- Ruth’s cousin -- Sara’s cousin. </p><p>लखि मखु पसि मखु न्हाकंप्वाच दाया हल, सिपाहीन घेरे यानाहल.<sup>12</sup> <em>It was not with a whip, it was not with a cane, it was with a bundle of stinging nettles that they were beaten. They were surrounded by soldiers. </em></p><p> </p><p>“.שֶׁבְּכָל הַלֵּילוֹת אָנוּ אוֹכְלִין בֵּין יוֹשְׁבִין וּבֵין מְסֻבִּין – הַלַּיְלָה הַזֶּה כֻּלָּנוּ מְסֻבִּין” </p><p> </p><p>Ruth sang, coming at last to her parents, throwing herself down to recline across them both. <em> That on all other nights some eat and drink sitting with others reclining; but on this night, we are all reclining? </em></p><p>“We recline because we are neither servants nor slaves,” said Ruth’s father. </p><p>“We recline because we are at ease here: safe in our own home, among our family and our people,” said Ruth’s mother.  </p><p><em> O Mother Sitala… </em> मते मते सितला माजु सहश्र बिनति छिके, याहुने लोक उधार <sup>20</sup> … <em> deliver the people, we beg you a thousand times!  </em></p><p>Ruth’s sparkling eyes were on him. “Uncle Tenzing.” </p><p>He was drowning -- <em> oh, </em> his ribs -- surely, <em> surely </em> that was the feeling of his heart breaking: there could be no other name for it. “Yes, dear one?” </p><p>“Why is tonight different from all other nights?”</p><p>He did not answer. </p><p>“Tenzing?” </p><p>That <em> voice… </em>   it was insistent as only a child could be, but he was so <em> very </em> deep below the surface of memory… he swam, reaching, <em> reaching… </em> and finally pulled himself far enough into the present to say: “...I do not know, Temeraire.” </p><p>He was here, he was <em> here: </em> tucked in the crook of Temeraire’s forearm, trying to sleep, refusing to weep. <em> Hold yourself together. </em> He wrapped his arms around his ribs -- <em> in times of great need, good men cannot rest.  </em></p><p>The fire was burning low. </p><p>Ruth had gone to bed, and the rest of the family had departed, and now it was just the three of them: Tharkay and Sara and Benjamin sitting together at the Seder table, with the last of the wine and the fire burning low in the hearth. </p><p>Sara and Benjamin seemed to <em> fit </em> together somehow, in a way he could not quite describe. He first remarked upon it when Benjamin caught her goblet, knocked aside by her sleeve as she used her hands to tell some part of a story. She had not even noticed, but Tharkay had; and Benjamin had caught his eye and winked -- because it was pure <em> Sara, </em>to become so engrossed in conversation, and Benjamin had anticipated it as if it were second nature to him… </p><p>Or the way they spoke: he understood the words, but -- it was like some sort of <em> code, </em>the way they related to each other, half-sentences and nonsense phrases -- unremarkable in themselves; but which clearly carried ten thousand shades of meaning and all of the weight of their long years together, when they spoke them to one another… </p><p>...was this how he and Will looked, to others? </p><p>How many times had he put out his hand without looking, confident that Laurence would give him whatever he’d been reaching for? How many times had Laurence offered him exactly what he needed, without him ever having to ask? </p><p>The force of longing hit him so hard then that Tharkay was surprised he did not swoon. He <em> wanted </em> this <em> -- </em> had not even <em> realized </em> until now that it was <em> this </em> that he wanted, had not even known how to <em> articulate </em> what it <em> was </em> … but sitting across from Sara and Benjamin, in the shared home that they had made together, in the warmth and security of the <em> family </em> they had created here, and him with that choking, <em> breaching </em> awareness of himself <em> just </em> outside their private universe… he could no longer deny the truth he had more or rather less successfully hidden from himself for -- months, now: he and Laurence were in love. </p><p>They were in love, and there was no good way for it to end.  </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“We shall have to hope that Laurence is recovered enough by now to make the journey,” Tharkay remarked. “How did he come to be shot -- or was it shrapnel?” That happened, more often than not. </p><p>“Oh, he fought a duel,” said Temeraire, as if it were to be expected. </p><p>“I find that I must humbly beg your very gracious pardon.” Every part of him was frozen. “He did <em> what?”  </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“The <em> Grand Vezir? </em>Even I have heard the news, Tenzing, and I’m not nearly so connected these days.” </p><p>“It was only a matter of time.” Tharkay looked at his things, spread out on the bed: one logbook, one compass, one canteen. He began to pack. </p><p>It had always been a delicate balance -- pursuing his suit hard enough that Whitehall believed him serious, but not so hard that his cousin would deem him any real threat; and never giving either side further motivation to rid themselves of him. It all depended on him being useful enough to his employers to scrape by, but never so effective as to attract undue attention. </p><p>“Everyone is talking about Whitehall’s man in Istanbul, who managed to outsmart Fouché himself -- they’ll already have put a bounty on your head.” The screaming success of this mission had tipped that balance, perhaps too far. “You’ve been reckless. Your cousin will seize the opportunity.”</p><p>Tharkay shrugged. “That would depend on Ambrose putting two and two together.”</p><p>“This isn’t like you.” She waited, leaving space for him to reply. He buckled the last straps on his pack with only minor difficulty -- his hands were as healed as they would ever be, by now. “Tenzing, what’s wrong?”</p><p>He did not belong in Istanbul, not really. Oh, he might do well, if he cared to -- he could make a life for himself in Istanbul, or Peking, or Timbuktu for all that matter; and he would be just fine. He had done it before, countless times. </p><p>But he did not <em> want </em> fine <em> -- </em> he wanted a <em> home; </em> he wanted <em> safety. </em> He wanted whispers in the dark, and arms cradling him close to rock and wind which sustained him. He wanted a steady pulse beneath his fingers, and -- and he wanted <em> Laurence: </em> Laurence’s bright eyes looking upon his vulnerability with <em> reverence; </em> and Laurence’s lovely eyes looking up at him with perfect trust, yes, trust that Tharkay would in turn hold his own fear and pain and hurt, all of his broken pieces, and help mend them with -- with compassion and grace, yes, and empathy, and <em> love…  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- tolerated in the relative freedom of the services --  </em>
</p><p>… and all of that would come to an end, once they had won the war.</p><p>For truly, they <em>had </em>done it, the three of them -- or they <em>would</em> do it; they were doing it <em>right now,</em> inshallah -- it was just as it had been in Danzig: Laurence, coordinating crucial aid; Tharkay, going before them to clear the way; and Temeraire binding them together, guiding their path, as always -- <em>you trusted that I would find you again, and I trusted that you would not leave me behind -- </em>and Temeraire’s egg having been absconded to France, he now had a reason to go to them that much sooner: the three of them would retrieve it, together -- they could do anything, so long as they were together. He knew this space; he was comfortable here. </p><p>And what did it say about him, that he felt more at home at war and in danger, sleeping with Laurence in camp-beds or hanging cots or bedrolls spread upon bare earth, than in any other single place he might rightly call his own? That there was a part of him which did not want the war to end, for it would mean giving up this love of theirs in the balance? </p><p>It was petty, selfish -- trite, even, to think of it in those terms. He was disgusted with himself, to be quite honest; or would be, if he could allow himself to feel anything at all. </p><p>It all seemed… exhausting. It <em> was </em> exhausting, to think of saying any of this, to think of trying to explain. He looked at Sara, <em> dear </em> Sara and her sympathetic eyes. “I’m... tired.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“Would you like a story, dear one?” Tharkay was a little revived, for they had chanced upon a <em> bear, </em>of all things, that afternoon; and though he was yet exhausted, he could offer Temeraire this comfort. </p><p>“Oh, yes!” It was worth it, to hear that note in his voice. “Very much.” </p><p>“Which would you like to hear?” </p><p>“Will you tell me the one about the canoe?” Temeraire asked. “Laurence could never tell it right, and I forgot to ask Tharunka.” </p><p>“Ah -- you speak of Tama Rereti and his waka, his great canoe, which floats in the river of the night sky.” </p><p>“Yes, that’s the one.” Temeraire coiled in a bit closer.</p><p>“It is a tale of the Māori, who are known as a seafaring people; their home islands lie to the south and east of Terra Australis. Among them number prodigious travelers, who navigate solely by starlight.” Tharkay made himself a little more comfortable, settling into the crook of Temeraire’s forearm.  </p><p>“Laurence would like them,” said Temeraire. </p><p>“Indeed.” Fuck Laurence. “I had this tale from one such traveler, whom I chanced to encounter during our stay with Jia Zhen at the Chinese port.” Which the Empire had then destroyed for no reason except that it threatened their profits. Which they would never had known about, had Tharkay not brought it to their attention so that he could accompany Temeraire and Laurence. </p><p><em> Fuck </em> Laurence.  </p><p>“A very long time ago, not long after the first people began to walk the earth, there were no stars in the sky at night. There was only darkness, and danger, and nothing to help the people find their way.” </p><p>He could not pretend as if that choice did not weigh on his conscience, a little. And yet -- what did he care, really, if two empires were squabbling over territory which was not even rightly theirs to begin with? It was the same story the world over. </p><p>“One morning at dawn, the great warrior Tama Rereti woke hungry. He saw that his stores were running low, and so he decided to go out and fish the great lake.” </p><p>The bickering between empires was no concern of his one way or the other, not <em> really… </em> except that the Māori storyteller had died, during the bombardment of Jia Zhen’s port, died before Tharkay had even gotten their name. </p><p>“He gathered up his fishing-lines and made ready his waka: hoisting the sails, weighing anchor; and set off. The wind carried him across the lake to his favorite fishing-spot.” </p><p>For while empires squabbled over money and trade and faraway <em> land, </em> the people who lived there paid the price; yes, paid the price in blood and bitter tears, and in lost stories, lost names. </p><p>“By late morning, having caught a great many fish, Tama Rereti decided to return home -- but the wind had died, and he was becalmed. Realizing this, Tama Rereti did not rage at fate, no, but decided instead to rest a while. He lay down in his waka, resting his head upon the coiled anchor-line. The waves cradled and rocked him; the sun was warm upon him, and soon Tama Rereti was fast asleep.”  </p><p>He was tired, so tired, of doing others’ work. Of finding ways to mitigate the Empire’s damage even as he allowed himself to be their tool, for the sake of his own survival -- but he would never, <em> could </em> never be free of it.  </p><p>“While he was sleeping, a breeze picked up -- a breeze which gently bore him across the water, for Tama Rereti had kept his anchor aboard with him, and the waka was left to drift.” </p><p>
  <em> -- please, Will, keep me here --  </em>
</p><p>“Tama Rereti woke much, much later to find that he was at the far shore of the lake, and worse: the sun was close to setting. He knew that he would never make it home before dusk -- and after dusk, the taniwha, the great guardians of the lake, would wake, and rise from the depths, and come and eat him up.” </p><p>He would never be free of the Empire, for he knew too many of its secrets by now; they would hunt him to the ends of the earth, if he ever tried to escape their grasp. He certainly would never be safe in Britain: even if Whitehall did not manage have him killed, Ambrose would make sure of it. </p><p>“Tama Rereti was not sure what he might do. Having slept most of the day away he was very hungry, and he knew it imperative to make a decision on a full stomach. He threw over the anchor and went ashore with his fish to eat and rest, so that he might gather the skill and strength required to find his way home.” </p><p>“That was very wise of him,” said Temeraire approvingly.  </p><p>“Indeed.” Tharkay smiled in the darkness: <em> dear </em> Temeraire. “And it saved him, for Tama Rereti sat gazing into his cookfire, eating baked fish, thinking of his Ahi-kaa -- his family’s sacred hearth -- and his wife and children, and how he longed to be home with them. And when Tama Rereti put out that cookfire, he found that the stones and pebbles he had used to make the fire’s circle stayed aglow.” </p><p>“Glowing pebbles and stones? I never heard of such a thing.” </p><p>“Neither had Tama Rereti. But having seen them with his own eyes, Tama Rereti had an idea -- an idea of how he might find his way to safety: what if he could sail home, not across the lake, but by way of the great river which flowed through the night sky?” </p><p>
  <em> -- you are the only one who could have seen --  </em>
</p><p>“So Tama Rereti gathered up all the luminescent stones, bringing them into his waka, and he weighed anchor. He began to paddle and paddle, and just as the sun was setting he guided his canoe down the path of light, across the horizon, and into the utter darkness of the great sky river.”  </p><p>
  <em> -- I chart my own course --  </em>
</p><p>“The river’s current rose and took him -- it was strong, so strong, and as it carried him along through the night sky Tama Rereti scattered those glowing pebbles in all directions, so that he might have just enough light to navigate its shoals, and find his way home.” </p><p>
  <em> -- wayfinder, pattern-weaver, honored teacher --  </em>
</p><p>“Those stones sank like truths to the bottom of the clear sky, Temeraire, and they became stars: sparkling in the darkness, drifting in the waka’s wake. Tama Rereti had placed the stars to light his own way, yes, but he left them there to shine for all his people, so they too might find their way to safety, in the night.” </p><p> -- <em> find your guiding stars, Will -- </em></p><p>“And in the morning, seeing what Tama Rereti had done, the sky god Ranginui came to Tama Rereti with praise, for he found the stars beautiful. Ranginui asked if he might take Tama Rereti’s waka and hang it in the sky, so that his people would know the story for generations to come. So that it too might guide them, and light their way.” </p><p>These things were true: Temeraire’s place was in Britain, fighting for justice for his kin; and Laurence’s place was at Temeraire’s side, yes; and Tharkay… Tharkay would never be safe, in Britain. </p><p>“Tama Rereti loved every part of his waka, his canoe, which had kept him safe all the long way across the water and the sky. He loved its prow and its stern, its masts and anchor and sails -- but his people needed guiding stars, and Tama Rereti loved his people more.” </p><p>
  <em> -- if Temeraire is my guiding constellation --  </em>
</p><p>“So Tama Rereti said --” </p><p>
  <em> -- you and I could never have chosen otherwise --  </em>
</p><p>“-- yes. He gave his waka to Ranginui, who sent it to float in the night sky forevermore -- and many generations later his people still navigate by those same stars: the waka of Tama Rereti.” </p><p>-- <em> you have oriented me to truth --  </em></p><p>“The prow, which we know as Scorpius, is called Tauihu.”  </p><p>
  <em> -- you found your way to my name --  </em>
</p><p>“The stern is Te Taurapa, which we call Orion, and the Pleiades are the feathers adorning it.”</p><p>
  <em> -- compass of my soul --  </em>
</p><p>“Canopus is Atatuhi, the navigator; and what we know as the Milky Way is the wake, stretching all across the sky, as the waka floats in the great river.” </p><p>-- <em> you keep me tied to myself --  </em></p><p>“And the collection of stars we call the Southern Cross,” Tharkay said softly, and Temeraire bent his head closer to hear, “that is Te Punga, the anchor, which keeps it all from drifting away.”  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>***</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Tharkay: surely my heart is breaking<br/>Tharkay’s heart: friend i hate to be the one to tell you this but ive been broken for a while now<br/>Tharkay:<br/>Tharkay’s heart: and don’t call me Shirley </p><p>#little kid whispers make the world go round #i’m handwaving the timeline a little bit because i’m not 100% sure when Tharkay left Istanbul but let’s just hope that Passover came early in 1813? </p><p>References: </p><p>“Te Waka O Tama Rereti” Milky-Way.Kiwi https://milky-way.kiwi/november/te-waka-o-tama-rereti/. Accessed September 2020. </p><p> </p><p>I don't have any specific citations for the Seder scene, other than the Sephardic Ma Nishtana recitation in the YouTube video above. My depiction of Tharkay's experience as a guest at a Seder table comes from my own experiences of being a guest at the Seder table. The Hebrew text of the Ma Nishtana I got from Wikipedia. My sources for the answers to the questions come from a whole bunch of synagogue websites, my own reading of the text (Exodus), and if I'm being honest, the 1998 Dreamworks animated movie The Prince of Egypt. </p><p> </p><p>Talk to me in the comments? </p><p> </p><p>With gratitude,<br/>nb***</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Alps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The editing playlist song for this one was Falling in Love with Love by Sammy Davis Jr, because the Bernadette Peters version isn't available on any of the streaming services. </p><p>Anything marked with an asterisk* is lifted directly from canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>The Alps ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>mind the gap </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p><p>
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</p><p>Someone he loved lay dying. Tharkay breathed, slow and even: cold rage. He sat, silent as stone, and did not weep. </p><p>“Tenzing.” He was here; he was <em> here </em> with Laurence and Temeraire, and Laurence was not going to die, not yet. </p><p>He raised an eyebrow, staring down at Laurence without pity, and corrected him. “Tharkay.” </p><p>Laurence looked away, swallowing hard. “You protected him. You… I had no right to hope you would, and yet…” </p><p>“I have never protected him for your sake.” His voice was a diamond blade. <em> I begin to think Roland had the right measure of you, all along. </em> “I protect him <em> from </em> you. <em> Because </em> of you, because of <em> your </em> failings. <em> Despite </em> you.” </p><p>“I <em> know,” </em> said Laurence miserably. “I know. I… I could never have done otherwise, and yet… it was all so <em> pointless, </em> T- Tharkay, it was such a colossal waste…” </p><p>“Yes.” It was not cruel; it was stone. “You are a fool.” </p><p>“Yes.” There was no satisfaction to be derived from berating Laurence, not when every line of his face sloped toward despair. Tharkay did not have it in him to drive the dagger in further; and yet neither he could find a shred of grace in his heart for fathers who, for all they loved their foreign sons, would always love their pride more. </p><p>And for some <em> stupid </em>reason, Tharkay had begun to believe that Captain William Laurence might be different. He had hoped to be done with these conversations, with this position of explaining; explaining and gentling along, and holding space for the gaps in Laurence’s thinking so that Laurence might see them for himself and learn from his mistakes; ever guiding, ever patient… </p><p><em> God, </em>he was tired. </p><p>नय यात नसा मदु तिय यात वस मदु, च्वने यात बास जित मदु:<sup>11</sup> <em>nothing to eat, nothing to cover me, no place for me to rest. </em></p><p>He was tired, <em> so </em> tired, and… and there was work to be done; they had Temeraire’s egg. There were more important things than his own exhaustion or Laurence’s delicate constitution. Tharkay looked down into those lovely eyes -- eyes ringed with purple deep as a bruise, swimming with remorse -- and did not say: <em> at least you are not begging me for absolution this time, Englishman. </em> </p><p>“These things are true.” Frost bloomed at the edges of his words. “You could never have done otherwise. You would not be yourself had you chosen any other course. And, <em>and, </em>what you fail to realize is that you, Laurence, <em>you</em> are worth <em>so</em> much more than your utility to the cause or your gentleman’s honor, to those who love you.” <em>To us. </em>“To Temeraire. He deserves <em>so</em> much better than this; you -- you have <em>no right </em>to call him your guiding star if you will not --” He had to cut himself off, pressing his hands to his eyes; he could not, he could <em>not -- O! Mother Sitala, deliver this child, deliver my child  -- the center of our world -- I will make offerings -- someone who needs me like that; it makes me want to be better</em> <em>-- I will sacrifice -- </em>no, no, he was here, he was <em>here…</em> </p><p><em> Breathe. </em> Tharkay pinched the bridge of his nose. <em> How can you not see that you are so much more important than your own selfish pride, Laurence? Why does your sense of honor not extend toward self-preservation for the sake of one who so deeply needs you? O Mother Sitala, oh mother, oh Aji, Aji, deliver your child…  </em></p><p>When Tharkay forced his eyes open once more, Laurence was still looking up at him with -- <em> what must I do? -- </em> that <em> infuriating </em> doe-eyed earnestness, and -- and <em> oh, </em> it was the outside of enough. </p><p>“You <em> cannot </em> be this stupid, Will.</p><p>“If you will not learn to value yourself above your own <em> fucking </em> pride for Temeraire’s sake, you <em> must </em> learn to be smarter. Pick one or the other; but do not allow your conscience to be manipulated against you.” There was no raptor’s gaze, now; he could not summon the strength. He only looked, yes, looked down into Laurence’s blue, blue eyes, and did not weep. “Do not let your character become a liability.” </p><p>After a breath, Laurence dropped his gaze. “You are right, of course.”</p><p>“I know.” Tharkay stood. “Get up. I’ve packed your things.” </p><p>Laurence sat up slowly, <em> so </em> slowly -- oh stars above, when had they become so very <em> old?  </em> सितला माजु स्वहुने परजाया गथिन हवाल: <em> O Mother, behold the piteous state of your people!  </em></p><p>Tharkay placed a hand upon hair that was coming in more silver than gold, these days. “Shall I help you dress?” </p><p>Perhaps there was a bit of grace in his heart, after all.</p><p>
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</p><p>*** </p><p>
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</p><p>Someone he loved lay dying. Tenzing sat, still as stone beside his father’s bed, and could not help but weep. </p><p>Albert’s eyes, clouded with fever, fell upon him. “Tenzing.” He sighed. “Tenzing, my son, my boy.” </p><p>“Father,” Tenzing whispered, clutching at his father’s hands. “Father, Father, please. <em> Please.”  </em></p><p>“Hm?” His father was drifting. </p><p>“The <em> name,” </em> said Tenzing desperately. “Your name, <em> our </em> name, our family name -- why, <em> why </em> have you not granted me the family <em> name?”  </em></p><p>“You are my son,” said Albert. “That is all that matters. It makes no difference what they call you; that will always be true.” The backs of his fingers caressed Tenzing’s cheek. </p><p>“If it makes no difference,” Tenzing could not help it: his voice was wobbly. “If it makes no difference, then <em> why </em> have you not given me yours?” </p><p>Albert closed his eyes, and sighed. “I loved your mother very much.” </p><p>“Yes,” said Tenzing. “Yes, I know, I <em> know, </em>but…” </p><p>“I always regretted,” rasped his father, “that I did not save her, that I did not save you all. I thought my instructions would be enough… they promised me… they have promised me my instructions will be enough, after I am gone, for you to inherit the estate…” His voice was so weak, his eyes so <em> very </em> blue; and he was looking up at Tenzing as if asking forgiveness… </p><p>Tenzing dashed tears from his eyes. “I don’t <em>care</em> about the estate! I want <em>your</em> <em>name,</em> Father. Don’t I deserve your name?” </p><p>“My son, my son.” His father stroked Tenzing’s cheek once more. “I love you so very much, my son,” he said, and died. </p><p>Oh -- oh -- <em> oh --  </em></p><p> </p><p>---- - - - - - - - </p><p>                   - - - - - -  -  - - -  - - --  -- -- - -- -- - - -</p><p>                                      - - - - - -    - - - -   - -  - - - -  - --     -- - - - - --     -- --  -- - --</p><p>- -                - - - - - -       - - - - - - -     - - ---- - - </p><p>                         -             -              -                                   -- - - - - -</p><p>                - - - --           - --- - --- -  - - -</p><p>                               - ---        --  - - --- --        -- --          -- -  - - -- -         - -        - - -     -      -     - </p><p>
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</p><p>-- oh, it <em> hurt, </em> it <em> hurt -- </em> his heart was breaking, shattering into pieces, surely…  </p><p><em> How </em> could he have failed his father like this? He had -- he had done everything they’d asked and more; he had learned and achieved and <em> fought -- </em> he had tried, he had tried <em> so </em> hard to be worthy of it, to be worthy of inheriting their legacy -- to become part of the family in <em> truth, </em>not just in blood. </p><p>And… and Albert had died before Tenzing could prove himself. Before he could earn the right to place himself among their number, before he could earn his family’s <em> name…   </em></p><p>And now he would <em> never </em> be good enough. </p><p>A cold wind whipped by his face, moaning and sobbing as he could not. </p><p>They were huddled at the base of Temeraire’s neck, and Tharkay had guided Laurence to lean back against his chest, head upon his shoulder: the reverse of their flight to Peking. It was just as well they had no need to talk anymore -- for he would certainly hold Laurence together, yes, and cradle him close with the last of his own failing strength; but he was not quite speaking to Laurence, just now. </p><p>He felt Laurence see the crevasse, and grudgingly had to admit that it was brilliant -- <em> genius, yes, but a fool all the same.  </em></p><p>And then Laurence sighed, for there were a great many logistics to be solved; not the least of which was how they would protect Temeraire from frostbite. </p><p>“Temeraire,” Tharkay called. “Do you recall that farm we passed, just to the northeast?” </p><p>“Yes.” Even Temeraire was growing curt, laboring as he was to keep aloft. “But why?” Laurence relaxed a little, turning his face into Tharkay's neck and closing his eyes. </p><p>“We’ll need a great deal of hay.” Tharkay tightened his hold, keeping one hand pressed to Laurence’s side, beneath his coat. </p><p>
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</p><p>Even once installed in the crevasse, they worked in perfect silence. They stood on the ledge and drew over map after map, which they fixed above their heads onto walls of blue ice before going back to start the next. Tharkay sketched contour lines based on the Alpine ferals’ intelligence -- <em> see how he has integrated the topography -- </em>but his hands not being what they once were, Laurence did the inking. As ever, Laurence added his annotations, nothing more required than a ? or ← for Tharkay to catch on: he finished off Laurence’s equations in the margins, for Laurence was having more and more trouble concentrating for long stretches, these days. </p><p>The wind was whistling, moaning -- his father was moaning, dying, and the fire had gone out: it was so very cold, so very <em> dark </em> -- no, he was here, he was <em> here. </em> He was here, and he had to do <em> something </em> to keep himself here -- <em> woodsmoke and a patterned quilt: I suppose I must speak to him --  </em></p><p>“Well, Laurence, you have a gift for establishing yourself in the more benighted places of the world.” Laurence said nothing, but his posture softened; Tharkay’s feeble pun had landed. “I will admit this is an unsurpassed bolt-hole. I imagine I could walk past the opening a dozen times without the least suspicion, even if I had certain knowledge you were within a hundred yards of me.”* </p><p>“I cannot think it so splendid as all that.” <em> Dearest </em>Temeraire. “It is very strange to feel that there is nothing beneath me: I feel as though I am flying, though I am not; and these walls are quite cold. But pray let us look at the maps again, and see if you can tell a little better, which way are they likely to come?”*</p><p>The wind was crying -- sighing --  </p><p>He heard a long wail, and turned around. His grandmother was rushing in, falling onto his father’s corpse, clutching at it, sobbing. After a few long moments, not knowing what else he might do, Tenzing reached for her hand; she turned and enfolded him in her arms. He could not help it: the tears began to fall again. </p><p>She stroked his hair as they cried together.  “My son,” she sobbed. “My eldest son, my baby boy…” Tenzing clung to her waist, lay his head on her shoulder. </p><p>“Grandmother.” He could barely get the words out. “Grandmother… don’t get rid of me, please don’t get rid of me…” </p><p>“Oh, my child,” she said, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “Never, never, never: you are Albert’s son; you are a part of this family<em> . </em> You are <em> ours, </em> and you shall never want for anything a day in your life, I promise you.” </p><p>He raised his head, wiping his eyes. “I can stay in the house?” </p><p>And her blue eyes were warm, so very <em> warm, </em> and she looked at him with love and care and tender affection -- “Oh, my dear,” she said, and stroked his face with her cold, cold hand. “Of <em> course </em> you will stay in the house; we need only shift your things upstairs.” </p><p>Tenzing had the sense of falling from a great height, falling as if in a dream, without ever hitting the ground -- her eyes, she was looking at him with <em> love </em> in her blue, blue eyes and he was falling endlessly backward into darkness -- no, no, <em> please… </em>he hit the table and it tipped, it crashed to the floor and him with it -- </p><p>And just then there was another <em> crack! </em>and they both of them started: Tenzing’s uncle had flung the heavy chamber door wide open. An icy draft swept across the room, sucked in through the curtains.  </p><p>His uncle stopped in the doorway, taking in the tableau: Tenzing on the floor, his grandmother standing over him as he lay amid the shattered china, and Albert’s corpse in the bed.  </p><p>Tenzing’s uncle stumbled into the room, swaying, and slurred, “This is a peculiar sort of place for convalescence…”* He was <em> here, </em> he was speaking to <em> -- </em>“Laurence. I cannot recall when I have seen either of you look more ragged.”* It was an awkward overture, but it cracked the silence between them nevertheless; and Tharkay needed to drag himself toward the present somehow. </p><p>“There is nothing to be done for it,” his grandmother said as his uncle flopped into a chair, passing Tenzing his flask. “I am sorry if your work in Istanbul was interrupted.”* </p><p>Tharkay accepted the flask from <em> Laurence, </em> not his uncle -- he was not there, he was not <em> then. </em> He was here. He was <em> here, </em> with Temeraire and Laurence and the hay and the maps and the <em> cold… </em>oh, it had been so very cold, then. It had been winter, and his uncle had been in Istanbul… </p><p>“No, my work was finished, some days before the French dragons came through. It was just as well to have an excuse to leave.”* Tenzing drank deeply from the flask, and it burned his insides all the way down: his father was dead, his uncle was drunk, and his grandmother… <em> no </em> . He was not here, he was not <em> there, </em> he was <em> here. </em> He was speaking to Laurence; he had been in Istanbul, yes, with Sara and Benjamin and Ruth and all their family at their table, a guest in their home -- they had been teaching Ruth their stories… </p><p>Tharkay drank again, and could not help it: he was perhaps a trifle disguised, and the whirlpool had dragged him under <em>--</em> नायखिन बाजन थायका, सिपाहीन घेरे याका, कचिमचा पितिनाव छोत:<sup>2</sup> <em>surrounded by soldiers, the children were driven out of the country  -- we need only move your things upstairs </em>--<em> cannot be openly practiced in Britain -- I wanted a family of my own -- </em></p><p>One of his bitter lonely thoughts made its way to the surface. “It is a very damnable thing, Laurence,” he heard himself say, “to be forever reminded that one is too much betwixt and between to belong to any settled place.”* </p><p>Laurence, tactful as ever, only took the flask in his turn and withdrew, asking about his journey, diverting the current of conversation toward safer waters. Tharkay let his head fall back against the wall of the crevasse, grateful for it; he kept his voice light, answering Laurence’s questions, and did not weep. </p><p>There were no playful flirtations this time, no long careful glances beneath showers of moonlight: an icy wind was sighing, and the moon was new. There were only the blue walls, yes, and the three of them wedged together into the deep fissure at the dark heart of the mountain, and nothing to light their way through the narrow gap. </p><p>
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  <em> Laurence jerked awake at uncertain intervals from discomfort and shrieks of wind, in pitch darkness, only Tharkay’s presence at his side and the steady low hissing of Temeraire’s breath to orient him.*  </em>
</p><p>“T-Tharkay? Tharkay, Tharkay.” </p><p>
  <em> Stop it. Stop saying my name like that; stop looking at me the way you do; stop promising me things.  </em>
</p><p>“You need not belong to any one place, Tharkay,” said Laurence, and his voice was low, beneath the wind. “You belong with us.” Of <em> course </em> Laurence had not looked at this pattern, of <em> course </em> Laurence had not realized -- <em> the degree to which you close your eyes -- </em> he was used to sidestepping this particular gap in Laurence’s thinking, by now -- <em> tolerated in the relative freedom of the services, under the exigencies of war -- </em> he <em> knew </em> that Laurence had had neither world enough nor time to work it out for himself -- <em> cannot be openly practiced in Britain -- </em> and yet <em> -- it hurt, Will; it still hurts -- </em> </p><p>There was no answer he could give but to curl tighter around himself, so far as that was possible. He breathed, slow and even, and did not weep. </p><p>Tenzing was done weeping; or rather, he had wept himself to sleep, this first night as an orphan. But something -- some whisper of a song, or a prayer? perhaps in a dream? -- had woken him. </p><p>He did not understand why his mind kept circling around his last exchange with his father. Yes, the shame and despair were familiar: of <em> course </em> he would never be good enough -- but something about how his father had looked up at him, as if pleading for absolution… <em> I have always regretted… they told me…  </em></p><p>Tenzing tried hard, <em> so </em> hard, not to perceive the connections forming in his mind, but it made no matter: a pattern took shape nonetheless, and he could not unsee it.  </p><p>He ran through the house, taking the servants’ stair, and arrived to the doorway of the study before he quite knew where his feet were leading him. His uncle did not offer him the flask, this time. </p><p>“My father,” Tenzing managed, and had to stop. <em> Breathe.  </em></p><p>“What?” Ah, so his uncle had reached the point of belligerence. </p><p>“My father said -- he said that he regretted that he did not save us all,” said Tenzing.</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“What did that mean?” He did his best to keep his voice from trembling. </p><p>“Oh, well.” His uncle sniffed, and rubbed his nose. “It would have been entirely too suspicious, wouldn’t it? Spiriting you away just before the hammer fell, and all that.” </p><p>“What?” No. <em> No. </em> No, no, no, no, <em> no, </em>no… </p><p>“As well announce the connection, with such a show of foreknowledge.” His uncle waved a hand. “But the king needed a reason, and the Company needed the land.” </p><p>No, no, <em> no. “What?”  </em></p><p>“If I did not know better I should begin to think you daft, boy.” His uncle drank deeply. “Though I suppose we are none of us in top form tonight.” </p><p>No. This could not be, it <em> could not be… </em> he was falling, falling backward into frozen blue… it was a dream, surely it was a <em> dream… </em> please, <em> please, </em> let this be a dream… </p><p>He jolted awake; he was staring, dizzy, into endless darkness -- falling forever -- <em> no, no please </em> -- oh, it <em> had </em> been a dream, yes, a dream and a memory, only a memory -- he was <em> here, </em> he was here -- he was here in the crevasse with Temeraire and Laurence and the ice and the maps, and he was <em> falling, </em> really falling <em> --  </em></p><p>सुरज कोमजो थाल चिकुं पुना मचा सित, माम बुबां नुग दाया खोल<sup>15</sup> : <em> a child died of cold, at a place where no sunlight fell… </em> no, no, <em> please, </em> oh please, <em> no… </em> he was <em> falling into </em>the darkness, drowning in his memories…</p><p>He felt a tug at his arm and followed it blindly, scrabbling away from that sharp edge, that great dizzying height; scrambling into another body<em> … </em>he held on, and tried to get his breath under control, having finally realized what was happening. </p><p>In his sleep Tharkay had rolled to the precipice of their ledge; at which point Laurence had taken his arm and tucked it under his own: linking them together, preventing him from rolling further, and -- and Laurence was only just now stirring awake. </p><p>“Ten- Tharkay? Tharkay, are you well?” </p><p>Oh, he could not <em> breathe, </em> he could not catch his breath, he could <em> not… </em> “Say it.” He moved in as close as he might, with all the many layers they wore: shields to insulate them from the cold; distance they had put between them, for their own protection. “Say it, Will.” </p><p>“Tenzing.” Laurence spoke his name like a prayer; <em> oh, </em> stars above, that -- that tenderness, that shortsighted <em> tenderness… </em>he shuddered. “Tenzing, Tenzing.” </p><p>
  <em> Breathe. Breathe, like the waves, like the wind. Breathe.  </em>
</p><p>Tharkay curled around Laurence’s arm, and did not weep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Albert, in the key of Leslie Odom Jr: dear Tenzing Tharkay what to sayyyy to you<br/>Albert: you have my eyes, you have your mother’s name<br/>Albert:<br/>Albert:<br/>Albert: and also her eyes </p><p> </p><p>Tharkay’s heart: what did i *just* say about calling me Shirley</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Grenoble</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Editing playlist song was Something Good from the Sound of Music. </p><p>Anything marked with an asterisk* is lifted directly from canon. </p><p>and it is now with great pleasure that i invite you to enjoy... </p><p> </p><p>***</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Grenoble ;</b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tenzing comes to breakfast </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>“Et votre nom, monsieur?” They were perfectly polite, but -- <em> no, what is your REAL name?  </em></p><p>“Tharkay.” </p><p>It didn’t matter anymore. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>He was not supposed to be here. </p><p>Well, he <em> was, </em>but… he was, and he wasn’t. </p><p>It was dark in the cramped space, and the air did not move. The soldiers had taken him, had taken him and -- no, <em>no, </em>he was not in the cave; he was <em>not in the cave. </em></p><p>There were voices outside the door. Perhaps if he stayed very still -- and very, <em> very </em> quiet -- they would not mark his presence, would not realize he was listening. </p><p>“Why have you brought him here?” </p><p>“Well, Mother.” He had never heard his father’s voice shake like that, before. “It would seem he is my son.” </p><p>“Yes, Albert.” His grandmother sounded very patient. “Again I ask: <em> why have you brought him here?”  </em></p><p>Tenzing had come to love the sound of his uncle’s laughter. Usually it meant that he would be lifted up and swung around in circles, or that his uncle might sneak him a sip from his flask, winking as Tenzing’s father put up a token protest. </p><p>“He has no one else, Mother, and <em> he is my son.”  </em></p><p>“Well.” Tinkling china. “I suppose we must find space for your by-blow, then, if you insist on keeping him. We will place him in the butler’s charge, and perhaps --” </p><p>“I beg your pardon,” said his father. “Lumanti and I were married; he is legitimate, and I mean to claim him.” A clatter, as if someone had dropped silver onto a plate. </p><p><em> “Claim </em> him.” His grandmother sounded… faint. </p><p>His uncle laughed again. “Are you utterly daft, brother?” </p><p>“Are you foxed at <em> breakfast, </em> brother?” </p><p>“Not enough for this.” The sound of liquid pouring. </p><p>“It is,” said his grandmother after a moment, “out of the question.” </p><p>“Mother.” His father sounded a little firmer, now. “My son will be my heir.” </p><p>There was a beat, then two, and then an explosion of crystal.</p><p>“You <em> cannot </em> mean to give the boy our name, Albert; think of your family -- think of our <em> position </em>--” </p><p>“There --” </p><p>“Has he been baptized? No, of course not, and if it was not a Christian marriage then the boy is a <em> bastard, </em> Albert, and --” </p><p>“Mother, I will not --” </p><p>“And <em> Tenzing </em> -- what kind of heathen nonsense --? Why didn’t you ensure the boy was given a proper name? A <em> Christian </em>name?” </p><p>“He <em> has </em> a Christian name, Mother -- his name is George --” </p><p>“Oh? Then why, pray tell, does he not <em> answer to it?” </em> </p><p>“I <em> tried, </em>Mother, but he is utterly recalcitrant!”  </p><p>A snort. “Occasionally calling him Georgie-porgie when you play pat-a-cake isn’t <em> trying, </em>Albert.”  </p><p>“I don’t recall asking for your input, <em> Humphrey.” </em> Something scraped and fell. </p><p>“Boys!” His grandmother’s voice was sharp with rebuke. “If he is wilful enough to reject one of our names, the ungrateful child, why should we grant him another?” </p><p>“It is his proper due,” said his father with a trace of confusion. “He is my son, Mother.” </p><p>“I find your lack of foresight disappointing,” said his grandmother. “Of <em> course </em> he is your son, Albert, no-one denies that, but what about <em> his </em> sons? What about your legacy: who do you imagine will marry their daughter to an Oriental? The boy is not even cut, Albert: what sane Christian would want him?” </p><p>There was silence. </p><p>“We have naught but our name, yes -- our name and our pride, and the hope of a good marriage to a richly dowered heiress, if we want to keep the estate. And if you cannot produce a <em>worthy</em> scion, Albert, perhaps your brother --”  </p><p>“No, Mother.” His uncle’s voice held the tone of a familiar argument. “You’ll have no heirs from me; I’m a backgammon player through and through, and a dissolute to boot.” He chuckled. </p><p>“My dear, I’m sure your proclivities for certain <em> games </em> do not preclude your fulfilling your duty to --” </p><p>“Shall I spell it out for you, Mother dearest?” simpered his uncle. “I am exclusively partial to taking it up the --” </p><p>“More tea?!” His grandmother’s cultured voice was almost a song; Tenzing liked the way it chimed. Albert snorted. </p><p>Liquid echoed into porcelain. </p><p>“If I may,” said Tenzing’s uncle after a while. “Per usual, I have the solution to a problem the two of you have cooked up entirely between yourselves.” </p><p>More silence. </p><p>“The boy already <em> has </em> a surname: Tharkay. Though he is legitimate -- <em> yes, </em> Mother, legitimate; for Albert considers himself to have been married to the girl -- still he does not have <em> our </em> name, not yet.” </p><p>A spoon scraped and rang against the rim of someone’s cup. </p><p>“Let him keep his names, for now -- <em> both </em> of them, for if we change one without the other it will raise questions,” said his uncle. “You may say that it is tradition to take the, the maternal grandfather’s surname among his people, that you honor his poor dead mother’s legacy -- it may even be true -- and when the boy has proven himself worthy, you may give him our name <em> with Mother’s blessing.”  </em>Tenzing could tell that this last bit was said pointedly at his grandmother. </p><p>“Or until you marry <em> properly, </em> and the matter is settled altogether --” </p><p>“I will not --” </p><p>“I refuse to go through this again,” said his uncle. “Mother, Albert, do we have an agreement?” </p><p>His grandmother said nothing, but she must have made some sign, because his uncle said, “All right, then.” </p><p>A door, opening, and skirts swishing. The door clicked shut.</p><p>There were only the sounds of eating, for a while. </p><p>“Well, I certainly am not the one to advise you on the responsibility of parenthood,” said his uncle, breaking the silence at last. “But it seems to me that you cannot have it both ways, Al: either he is your son or he isn’t.” </p><p>“He <em> is.”  </em></p><p>“Then you certainly can’t remarry -- or even take the chance of any more squirts, for that matter; not if you want him to inherit.” His father must have made a face, because his uncle added, “Oh, it’s not so bad as all that: I’ll make some introductions, if you like.” </p><p>His father chuckled. “You are ever gracious, brother.” </p><p>“Mother will come around. He is rather endearing, after all.” Tenzing shifted, at that -- <em> endearing -- </em>and the floorboards creaked beneath him. </p><p>There were steps on the other side of the door, and then someone had thrown it open wide. He put his hands up to protect his eyes, squinting in the sudden light. </p><p>“You may as well come out, m'sieur: it seems you are not to be shot, after all.” </p><p>Tharkay’s head spun -- he was here, he was <em> here, </em> but where was <em> here? -- </em> he reached out: where was his anchor? -- <em> you are here, you are here, breathe like the waves -- </em>and then there were hands on him, rough but not unkind, and they were guiding him to stand.</p><p>“Come, m'sieur,” said his guard. “You will be better for some breakfast; I am to escort you there now.”  </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Laurence had thought he understood, so far as he was able, what Tharkay had told him in Vilna: there are more important things than your pride, Will. Of course, he could not <em> think </em> of any -- but he believed that Tharkay was telling him the truth nonetheless.</p><p>He had never known another who understood so very intimately the degree to which he bound himself by his own will: that iron control, the proper conduct hammered into his bones so deeply he sometimes forgot its imposition. But Tharkay -- Tharkay <em> knew </em> it, because he did it too; Tharkay armed himself against the world with the weapons of decorum in just the same way Laurence did; Tharkay <em> saw </em> him -- and in fact it was precisely <em> because </em> of this depth of empathy that Laurence could relinquish that control, around him. He could express those impulses hidden within his secret heart -- impulses he himself did not understand; impulses of which he was terrified, of which he was ashamed -- secure in the knowledge that Tharkay would neither flinch away nor pass judgment -- <em> don’t go: I shan’t.  </em></p><p>Choosing to release that control, to surrender oneself to those unseen tides of feeling within the safety of another’s embrace<em> -- </em> Laurence had never imagined he might receive such a gift: someone with whom he could let himself <em> be, </em> someone who trusted him enough to do so in return. That recognition, that kinship between them: the deep knowledge of just how much effort it took to retain command of themselves at all times, and make it <em> look </em> effortless besides… it had ever bound them together. </p><p>
  <em> You have no right to call him your guiding star if you will not --  </em>
</p><p>He had never seen Tharkay <em> lose </em> control, before.</p><p>It was the knowledge of himself as the cause of that anguish, more than anything, which made Laurence entertain the possibility that perhaps he <em> should </em> have done otherwise after all. If his actions had driven Tharkay to such an extreme, Laurence trusted that he was in the right -- was advising him truly, even though in his secret heart of hearts he did not <em> quite </em> understand why. That he would forfeit his life for the sake of his conscience, his honor -- that much was bare fact; he could not imagine otherwise. And having betrayed himself once already, and then only in the direst of circumstances, Laurence was quite certain that there could be nothing to match the depth of feeling which had led him to bring the cure to France.</p><p>And then -- well. </p><p>It had been like checking his compass to find that he was already facing north; yes, there it was, plain and true: <em> Laurence could not let Tharkay die when the sacrifice of his pride might save him.* </em> He would gladly forfeit his own life for his principles; yes, of <em> course </em> he would <em> -- </em> but never <em> his, </em> never <em> .  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- I will shake empires down to their foundations --  </em>
</p><p>Still, and even after having read Napoleon’s letter granting the pardon, Laurence had not really allowed himself to <em> believe </em> that Tharkay was all right, not until he saw it for himself -- so when the door opened, Laurence found that he had to clutch the table for support. </p><p><em> Oh, </em>there he was, all in one piece: wary, uncertain -- gaze darting around the room, disbelieving, ready to flee, as ever -- and then that dragonfly stare alighted upon Laurence. </p><p><em> Tenzing. </em>Having lost his name once, Laurence savored it all the more now. Tenzing, Tenzing. </p><p>Those dark eyes, that penetrating stare -- fluid brows, and a braided queue falling like brambles over his precisely cut shoulder -- full lips set in a wide mouth just now grey around the edges, grim at the corners -- oh, <em> oh --  </em></p><p>Laurence could not get his fill of Tharkay’s face. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> But I had written the letter.  </em>
</p><p>Tharkay was <em> here, </em> for some reason. He was in an elegantly furnished room, and sunlight was streaming through the windows -- and there was Admiral Thibaut, and Granby, and -- and Laurence. </p><p>Laurence, looking at him as if he were a precious jewel, as if he were dawn breaking over a ridge beneath an open sky, as if he -- </p><p>
  <em> But… I had written the letter.  </em>
</p><p>Did Laurence know? Surely so, for Tharkay had now been fully and undeniably exposed, but did he <em> realize?  </em></p><p>There was a pattern here -- something he was missing, something he was not seeing -- some gap in his knowledge -- </p><p>And then he caught sight of the table, set for four, and the carafe of steaming coffee in the middle. <em> Coffee.  </em></p><p>Well, then. </p><p>He just might live through this, after all. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>It had been a long time since Laurence had found Tharkay’s expression unreadable; years, maybe. To <em> others, </em> naturally -- it took a sharp mind and deep knowledge of context to decipher those eyebrows -- but not to <em> him.  </em></p><p><em> Why </em> should it be unreadable, now?  </p><p>In the time it took them to seat themselves, lightning split his mind: Tharkay was the Government’s spy; yes, that much had been made clear -- </p><p>-- and then the thunderclap, instantaneous: the storm was <em> here…   </em></p><p>...Oh. <em> Oh.  </em></p><p>Tharkay was the Government’s spy on <em> him.  </em></p><p>On him, and on Temeraire. </p><p>There was no other reason he should have been able to stay with them, constantly coming to their rescue, and maintain his dubious standing as -- what <em> was </em> his role, exactly, in the service? He knew Tharkay held a captain’s rank, but beyond that Laurence had never quite questioned it. He had <em> never questioned it.  </em></p><p>But...Whitehall. Tharkay had been assigned by the Empire to spy upon <em> them: </em> Laurence had the thought, and knew that it was true. He should have seen this coming: first Gong Su, and then -- oh, and Tharkay had even <em> laughed; </em> how had he not <em> seen?  </em></p><p>How long --? <em> I find the journey tempts me -- </em> oh, <em> oh, </em> they had sent Tharkay with him on his transport; Tharkay had been spying on him since Terra Australis, since the <em> ship, </em> since before the night Laurence had -- had <em> named </em> him; oh, and he had even been the one to tell him to <em> -- question everything, everything -- </em> how, <em> how </em> had Laurence never thought to question <em> him?  </em></p><p>He questioned Tharkay, now. </p><p>
  <em> -- extract what you require, and give nothing of yourself -- there are authorities to suit any action, if you like -- if you believe the cynics -- I prefer to keep the choice a little closer -- I might never have found you -- do not burden me with your absolution -- you are a traitor -- I imagine you find I have been very close -- forced to endure it wholly alone -- it is a poisoned well -- you cannot be this stupid --  </em>
</p><p>Oh… </p><p>
  <em> Oh.   </em>
</p><p>He <em> had </em> been stupid.</p><p>Laurence knew these things to be true: Tharkay was the Empire’s spy, yes; and Tharkay had been assigned and paid by the Empire to spy upon <em> him, </em>upon him and Temeraire. </p><p>And the moment as he asked himself the question, Laurence knew with the certainty of a lodestone drawing north that Tenzing had never and would never betray them. It was a truth which seemed fundamental to his understanding of the world; an immutable fact forged in the crucible of their long years together, relying on one another, <em> tending </em> to one another -- <em> you honor me --  </em></p><p>This was just one more way he had arranged to look after them. </p><p>He had… he had <em> protected </em> them -- not just from enemies from without, but likewise from within their own Government. Laurence <em> had </em> wondered, not a few times these last years, at the suspicious latitude afforded him by his superiors; but he had not questioned it further, for it had allowed him to follow Temeraire’s lead without interference… how had he never <em> questioned </em> it? </p><p>Tharkay had <em> shielded </em> them from it, from all of it -- <em> you have afforded me latitude to free myself </em> -- for the forces of Empire were never going to let him and Temeraire be, Laurence knew that now; and by making himself the go-between, Tharkay had <em> tricked </em> them into thinking they controlled him, controlled them all <em> -- </em> ha! </p><p>Sheer brilliance -- simplicity, and brilliance: so very elegant, hiding in plain sight. It was… pure devotion; steadfast, enduring loyalty: Tharkay had chosen time and again to do whatever necessary to keep them safe, even at great cost to himself -- oh, <em> oh, </em> the <em> cost…  </em></p><p>Had Tharkay really done all of that for -- for <em> him?  </em></p><p>
  <em> -- kindly do not flatter yourself; we came to rescue Temeraire -- I have never protected him for your sake -- I protect him from you: because of you, because of your failings, despite you --  </em>
</p><p>No. </p><p>It had never been about him, <em> never. </em>Oh, Laurence had earned Tharkay’s loyalty and friendship in his own right, that much was certainly true, but… </p><p>But it had all been for <em> Temeraire.   </em></p><p>Tharkay… Tharkay <em>loved</em> Temeraire: Laurence had the thought, and knew it, too, for truth -- loved him with a deep abiding fierceness which Laurence recognized, for it was at the core of his <em>own</em> heart; he had not thought it possible, for any-one to ever -- but Tharkay had at every turn made the choice to <em>protect</em> Temeraire, to risk and sacrifice and <em>fight</em> for Temeraire, to support and nurture his growth in ways Laurence could not, yes, and even to extend himself in order to teach <em>Laurence</em> how to be better -- because <em>he loved Temeraire.</em>  </p><p>Wisps of inky hair, curling around proud cheekbones -- that firm jaw, and that stubborn chin -- <em> oh, </em> he could not get his fill of Tharkay’s face. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Laurence had written to the Emperor. </p><p>Only one person outranked Fouché, and there was only one person who could have interceded with Fouché’s superior on Tharkay’s behalf. </p><p>These things were true: the sun was coming in through the windows, and Tharkay was drinking rich bitter coffee, and Laurence had written to the Emperor.</p><p>For <em> him.  </em></p><p>Well, and now his uncertainty was over: upon learning of Tharkay’s espionage, Laurence’s response had been to revisit the site of his great treason and throw over his pride in order to ensure Tharkay’s safety. This was both true and impossible: it could not be accepted; there was no space large enough to contain it. </p><p>Laurence had called upon the tyrant to pardon him: fine, well and good, unthinkable, inadmissible; and yet Tharkay was alive, so Laurence must have written to the Emperor: inconceivable. All right, then. The paradox was absolutely perfect, perfectly absolute, but…  </p><p>But <em> why </em> had Napoleon said <em> yes? </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Laurence had never felt the need to distinguish his lovers from his bedfellows by virtue of the behaviors he engaged in with each -- there were usually much readier methods of differentiating the sexes, in any case. But he recognized that there were lines others drew which made things easier for them: the practice was rather common in the Navy, after all; and once made apparent to him Laurence abided by those borders with all of the respect due any request made by a trusted comrade. </p><p>So when Tharkay had pulled away, in Russia, Laurence had understood. He had not <em> thought </em> Tharkay one of those men who would not kiss his fellows; but then again they could afford no distractions, and Laurence was now certain they would never have left that camp-bed, had Tenzing not turned his head.  </p><p>He had put the matter aside, after that; had not permitted himself to think of it -- for Tenzing had been quite right: there were places they could not go, places from which they might not return -- and yet just now he could not help it; his eyes were drawn to -- <em> sweeping lashes and soft lips, drinking silver moonlight -- </em>and Laurence remembered, or realized, that he very much wanted to kiss Tenzing Tharkay, right on the mouth. </p><p>He could not get his fill of his <em> face. </em> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>If Captain John Granby had ever been to a more awkward breakfast, he had mercifully forgotten the occasion. </p><p>“It’s sweet, really.” At least Admiral Frog was here to cut the tension. </p><p>“Ugh.” Granby drank his coffee. “They’re always doing that. Looking at each other, making little jokes. It’s <em> obscene.”  </em></p><p>Thibaut surveyed him over the rim of his own cup. “You are missing someone, I think.” </p><p>“Yes.” He would not elaborate to his captor. </p><p>The Admiral gave a small smile. “Will they hear anything we say?” </p><p>Grateful for the diversion, Granby replied, “I should think not, but I’d dearly like to see you try.” </p><p>“As would I: never had I thought to make such common cause with an Englishman.”  Then he winked, and raised his voice slightly to add: “But wartime makes for strange bedfellows, I suppose.” </p><p>Laurence choked on his bacon, and Tharkay’s cup rattled in its saucer. </p><p>Granby grinned. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>***</p><p> </p><p>RE: MONSIEUR THARKAY</p><p>Hello Napoleon, </p><p>I hope this finds you well, or as well as can be during these trying times. I’m writing to circle back on one of our earlier conversations -- per our previous correspondence (see attached) it is within my right to ask that you spare the life of one of our comrades recently taken prisoner, one M. Tharkay, and return him to our company. I’d be very grateful if you could assist me in this, as far as you are able. </p><p>Like I hate to call in this favor but let’s be honest, you know you owe me one. </p><p>Please respond at your earliest convenience. </p><p>Best regards,<br/>William Fuck You Laurence<br/>(he / him / his)<br/>Captain, Temeraire Lung Tien Xiang</p><p> </p><p>#gonna paraphrase bell hooks here and say that love can only exist if they are willing to invest themselves in justice on your behalf #my partner has me reading her book ‘all about love’ and it’s devastating, highly recommend</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Fontainebleau</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The song I had on repeat while editing this one was Kamasi Washington's Street Fighter Mas. </p><p>There will, however, be a point where this will add to your experience, though be warned that there is some slight lyrical variation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_2g_kNTBek </p><p>As always, anything marked with an asterisk* is lifted directly from canon.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Fontainebleau ; </b>
</h1><p> </p><p>
  <b>or, </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Tharkay ignites</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>*** </b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> Beautiful, cold, and terrifying: she encourages them to think her a silly and frivolous creature, for it allows her to do as she pleases.  </em>
</p><p>Pemberton had not been lying, about Anahuarque. </p><p>“A remarkable performance,” he said as they arrived to their sumptuous suite. “She makes quite the picture of domesticity. You would never think to look at her that she is the absolute ruler of several million people and some five thousand dragons, and a nation larger than Europe.”* <em> Tyrants deserve one another.  </em></p><p>Granby flung himself down onto the nearest settee, loosening his neckcloth; Laurence came to join Tharkay by the window. </p><p>It was -- reckless, perhaps: though the guards had withdrawn behind the door, it was safe to assume they were being watched nonetheless, if not overheard. Still, Tharkay <em> had </em> to know: had Laurence realized? and if so: having been discovered, did he still have Laurence’s trust? He could not approach the matter outright, but he might offer an opening, in their oblique way. “Talleyrand is an interesting visitor for her to host. He quarreled with her husband several years ago, after the failure of the invasion of Britain. I wonder where he is getting his money from these days: Austria, perhaps.”*</p><p>Laurence grimaced -- <em> dearest </em> Laurence, who would betray his country for his conscience, yes, but never for <em> money: </em>he had always had enough. </p><p>Still, the reaction afforded an opportunity to probe further. “Spying is not the cleanest business,”* Tharkay said lightly, glancing at him sidelong. <em> I have done… awful things, Will; I have been spying on you for years, I have…   </em></p><p>Laurence turned to face him full on, shaking his head sharply. “There can be no comparison.”* He said it with conviction: those eyes were steady, gazing at him like <em>that -- </em>no, it could not be that Laurence knew, that he <em>knew</em> and was still <em>looking</em> at him like that, it could <em>not… </em></p><p>“The two are not unrelated, I am afraid.” <em> No, Laurence, it is just the same; I cannot allow you to deceive yourself in this, you must -- </em>  “A man rarely will compromise himself without assistance.”* <em> I told you in Istanbul, I like to know if I am doubted.  </em></p><p>Laurence did not falter. “That does not justify the act upon <em> his </em>side.” And then his regard both softened and sharpened with particular emphasis as he added, “No man may be made a traitor without his consent.”* Tharkay’s skin prickled. </p><p>He looked at Laurence’s face, into those eyes, searching -- <em> I have lost count, Laurence, of the vows I have made in bad faith, of oaths forsworn; and yet having been made sensible to this, still you trust my word, my loyalty to you and Temeraire? Still you do not doubt me?  </em>He could not quite credit it.</p><p>But Laurence was looking back at him, steady as ever, and his bright lovely eyes seemed to say <em> yes.  </em></p><p>Tharkay was -- falling, falling forward into warm blue -- Laurence was reaching for his hand -- </p><p>Granby coughed. </p><p>-- right. They were being watched. </p><p>Well, then. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*** </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>“--infamous gentleman? Laurence, you do not know how much you are in my debt: Fouché outright gnashed his teeth when I told him he must give up his prey --”* </p><p>The impossible had been confirmed: Laurence had written to the Emperor. </p><p>These things were true: Bonaparte was clapping him on the shoulder, and Laurence knew he was a spy, and Laurence had written to the Emperor.</p><p>This must be how Temeraire had felt, when Laurence had betrayed his country and given up his rank, fortune, and liberty for <em> his </em> sake. Oh, Tharkay had tried to sympathize, to assuage Temeraire’s worry with blithe reassurances, but he had not understood -- not <em> really, </em>not until now. </p><p>For there was <em> no possible way -- </em> he could not believe that Laurence did not feel resentment, did not <em> blame </em> him -- it was entirely beyond the realm of reason, to suppose that Laurence had willingly betrayed his honor, had put aside his pride, had handed his enemy another means by which he could be controlled, for -- for <em> his </em> sake, for <em> him. </em> Laurence, who would not even do that for <em> himself.  </em></p><p>Tharkay called forth the tide, let the sea rise to cover the shoreline and hide the truth; it could be neither contained nor accepted, neither folded away nor faced. Now was the time for him to open his mind and <em> observe, </em> to perceive what threads he could; for they were in deepest danger here in the insidious comfort of the French palace, and the question yet remained: <em> why </em> had Napoleon said <em> yes? </em> </p><p>“Captain Laurence, I am remiss. You must permit me to offer my condolences upon the loss of your father.”* Bonaparte was eviscerating Laurence as if they were old friends -- showering him with scalding courtesies, lashing him with a smile: manipulating his decorum against him, for having written to the tyrant, Laurence’s manners would not now allow him to turn away his attentions.</p><p>“I thank you, Your Majesty.”* Laurence’s voice was polite, brittle -- oh, no. No, no, <em> no…  </em></p><p>And then Tharkay caught sight of Napoleon’s other guest, and a pattern began to form. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>He fell in step with Junichiro, just behind Laurence and Bonaparte; Granby brought up the rear. </p><p>Napoleon was -- was <em> escorting </em>Laurence through the grounds, had in fact tucked Laurence’s hand into his elbow -- was glancing back at Tharkay every so often in gleeful triumph, as if this were the exact outcome he had been hoping for… </p><p>Tharkay flew up and out of himself. He had not done this since -- since the <em> cave </em> -- but there was no other way -- he swam, he swam with the winds and the dragons in their conclave; the rolling grounds and the manicured gardens -- <em> gurgling fountains, cooking lamb, jasmine vines </em> -- <em> no, </em> he was here in Fontainebleau walking the paths, <em> strolling </em> with Napoleon and Junichiro and Laurence… Napoleon was -- <em> offering his arm and escorting Preeti around the party with pride, showing her off to his guests -- </em> no -- wait -- <em> yes.  </em></p><p>There it was: the shape, the pattern, the <em> constellation, </em>the story. </p><p>Fouché had had his name from Ambrose, and Napoleon from Junichiro: they had captured him with the full knowledge of not only who he was to Britain, but likewise who he was to <em> Laurence.  </em></p><p>Oh -- <em> ohhhhhh </em> -- was this how Iskierka felt? There was a spark, somewhere deep in his frozen core… </p><p>They had <em> used </em> him. They had used him to <em> trap </em> Laurence; they had given Laurence no real choice at all: the tyrant would have won whether Laurence begged the pardon or not; and now having drawn Laurence into making the first overture, Napoleon was pressing his advantage. </p><p><em> -- do not allow your conscience to be used against you -- </em> ohh, but they had boxed Laurence so <em> neatly </em> into a corner -- Laurence had offered Tharkay an immeasurable gift, a priceless honor which even now he could not name for fear of breaking apart -- and they had -- they had <em> spoiled </em> it: they had <em> desecrated </em> Laurence’s sacrifice, they had <em> violated his character.  </em></p><p>Even now, even <em>now, </em>the tyrant was <em>still doing it -- </em>how dare he, how <em>dare</em> he -- Bonaparte was parading Laurence through the grounds like a prize cow, keeping him on the back foot with the weight of social obligation, overwhelming him by force of personality -- Laurence was growing quieter and quieter, his posture more and more fragile by the second… </p><p>Ohhhh, yes, surely this was how Iskierka felt -- the spark caught and held within him: a long-absent friend. Tharkay looked down at Junichiro, lifting his lip in a snarl: <em> you </em>…  </p><p>Junichiro sped up walking, just the slightest bit. </p><p>The tyrant was still ringing a fine peal over Laurence, cutting him down with deadly precision. “You may be sure that the pitiable condition of the Russian ferals has not been forgotten here -- those monstrous wing-chains! I wonder that you can with complacency range yourself with the architects of such cruelty.”* How <em> dare </em> he. </p><p>“Not with complacency.” Oh, Laurence’s voice was small, so <em>very small --</em>  Laurence was -- no<em> --</em> Laurence was <em>beaten? --</em> <em>no, please -- </em>and then Tharkay could feel Laurence very carefully <em>not</em> look his way, just as if he had reached out and tugged on his braid; and he took in a deep breath -- <em>like the waves, Will --</em> as Laurence inhaled too, and then added, a little stronger: “But war makes strange bedfellows, sir.”* </p><p>Oh, <em> dearest </em>Laurence, who was not quite defeated, not yet. Not ever. </p><p>“By your decision.” Fuck Bonaparte sideways. “You know the masters you serve: you cannot expect otherwise under their rule. But I will not wound you with reproaches! I know <em> your </em> conscience is not that of soft metal, which bends before the wind.” Ohhhh, how <em> dare </em> he -- Laurence was wounded, <em> bleeding, </em> and Napoleon was <em> hurting him more. </em>“But now you must pardon me… ”* </p><p>
  <em> Breathe.  </em>
</p><p>He could not look at Junichiro, he could <em> not… </em> he would not blame this child for Bonaparte’s monstrous designs, no, but if Junichiro spoke even <em> once </em> more… </p><p>They made it all the way back to their suite before it happened: Granby offered a comment, and for some <em> blasted </em> reason the boy felt the need to respond. “You are mistaken, Captain Granby.” Oh no, <em> no... </em> “He has already made all those beasts a gift which commands both their interest and respect -- the cure for the dragon plague.”* </p><p>A screeching, shrieking silence: Tharkay could <em> feel </em> Laurence’s vertigo from here. </p><p>Violence rose in his gorge. He looked at that -- that <em> wretched </em>child, expressionless, and shifted minutely. </p><p>Junichiro tripped backward over his own feet, managing to flee just as Granby slammed the door. </p><p> </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Laurence was not well. </p><p>Tharkay could <em> kill </em> Junichiro. He would not -- but he <em> could; </em> he <em> wanted </em>to. </p><p>He studied Laurence’s face, lit from below by the hearth. There was utter blankness: all the color had drained from him; he might as well be a porcelain doll, <em> oh -- </em> that <em> shell </em> -- hard-glazed, formed in fire, so easily shattered. </p><p>He could <em> destroy </em> Bonaparte. </p><p>He would. He <em> would </em> destroy Bonaparte: there was no-one else who could. </p><p>The fire within him was blazing, now -- his ribs were a bellows: bringing him wind, bringing him fuel -- <em> yes, breathe, breathe and breathe and breathe and BURN… </em>ohh, the flames were beautiful. </p><p>It felt good. It felt <em> good, </em> to feel this; it felt good to feel <em> warm -- </em> hot, even. His hands were not aching so much anymore: he could stretch and flex his fingers before the hearth; he could even begin to attempt one or two mudras while he stared into the fire and allowed his mind to drift free, gathering the threads, spinning them together… </p><p>The Lion’s Face -- he could not <em> quite </em> remember the Sanskrit. Laurence was the prize: eye-catching, visible -- but Laurence would not let Bonaparte’s display stand for long. </p><p>The Swan: Hams--? and there was another <em> p </em> in there, somewhere -- Temeraire and Iskierka were the ones best situated to plan and execute an escape. </p><p>Mukulam: the bud -- Temeraire already had all the tools he needed, held in check as he was only by his fear for Laurence’s well-being. </p><p>The Bee: this one had ever been difficult, but that was the point of this exercise. </p><p>If Temeraire could be made aware of the situation, of Laurence’s state, Tharkay felt reasonably certain he would act. A word, somehow dropped in his ear at the right time… </p><p>Alapadmam: fully-bloomed lotus. </p><p>He would <em> destroy </em> Bonaparte. </p><p>And then the hairs on his arms were standing on end, and Tharkay looked up. “Yes?” </p><p>Laurence’s eyes were flat: alabaster inlaid with lapis. “I will never understand,” he said, devoid of all affect, “how you know so many things.” </p><p>Oh, he could not <em> take </em> this: the jangling discord of self-hatred in Laurence’s voice, the hollow sound of emptiness. Tharkay raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes off Laurence, and called, “John, mark who speaks: William Laurence has just implied that <em> I </em>know many things.” </p><p>“Do mine ears deceive me?” Granby, who had been lounging on a settee near the window, now sat up. They had not done this since the <em> Allegiance </em> -- had not been forced to it since then -- but, well, desperate times. “Has William My Favorite Book Is Physics Laurence actually asked how <em> you </em> have become so knowledgeable?” Laurence’s expression did not change. </p><p>“One would think such a learned man might know better,” Tharkay drawled. “But William I Best Arachne at Her Own Craft Laurence has ever been too humble for his own good.” </p><p>Granby shook his head sadly. “What are we to do with poor William My Hessians Are Never Not Shined Laurence?” </p><p>“These Navy chaps.” Tharkay shrugged, twisting over the back of his chair to look at Granby. “They are most of them completely hopeless, but none so much as William I Know Eighteen Correct Ways to Tie a Neckcloth Laurence.”</p><p>“Do you know, Iskierka and I chanced to become acquainted with quite a few sailors, in Gibraltar; I’ve found that many of them are actually good company -- apart, that is, from William I Recite Latin in My Sleep Laurence.” </p><p>“Well, one cannot paint <em> all </em> Navy men with the same brush,” Tharkay admonished. “William I Charted My Way Across the Pacific with Naught but Compass and String Laurence is singular in many respects, after all.” </p><p>“Indeed, though I would venture to guess that I know one or two things about the Navy that William I Have the English Coastline Tattooed on the Backs of My Eyelids Laurence doesn’t, these days.” Granby grinned, mischievous. </p><p>Tharkay drew his brows together in a peak. “What could you <em> possibly </em>know about the Royal Navy that William I Identify Ships by the Sound of Their Guns Laurence does not?” he asked with utmost condescension. </p><p>“Well, they’re singing some delightful new shanties down in Gibraltar,” said Granby. “Iskierka was very fond of one in particular, having become rather taken with not a few Andalusian beauties during our service. It is much too bawdy for William My Silk Stockings Are Always Pressed Laurence, but I thought you might like to hear it, Tharkay, as you are always collecting new songs.” </p><p>“Certainly I would -- with your permission, Captain Laurence?” Tharkay turned back to look. </p><p>Laurence’s face was contorted, as if he were struggling not to show some emotion. Good: at least he was feeling <em> something; </em> at least he was <em> here, </em> now. “You are not amusing.” </p><p>“I beg your pardon,” retorted Tharkay, indignant. “I do not intend to amuse but to <em> seek new knowledge, </em> Your Imperialness Captain William How Do You Know So Many Things Laurence, sir.” </p><p>Laurence’s mouth twitched. “If you must.” </p><p>“Captain Granby?” Tharkay waved him over. “If you would?” </p><p>Granby came to stand before the fire, making a great show of clearing his throat and shuffling his feet, straightening his neckcloth and humming a set of scales before taking a deep and exaggerated breath. </p><p>“Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrre------<em> WELL </em> AND ADIEUUUUUUUU…” he belted at top volume, and Laurence jumped like a startled rabbit -- <em> excellent. </em>“To you, Spanish laaadies… Fare-WELLLLLL and adieuuu to you, daughters of Spaaain...” </p><p>The song was simple enough, and the tune was very catching -- Tharkay could see why Iskierka liked it -- and Granby was doing a wonderful job, performing it with utmost showmanship… </p><p>“For we’ve received ooooorders for to SAAAAIL for old ENG-LAAAAND, and we hoooope in a short time to see you agaaaaain!” </p><p>… and Laurence’s eyes had gone blank once more. </p><p>Tharkay stood, and joining Granby in front of the fire began to dance along -- the silliest possible jig; arms akimbo, feet flying -- as Granby started the refrain: “We’ll rant and we’ll roaaaaaaarrrr like truuuuue British saaailors; we’ll RANT AND WE’LL ROAAAAAR all aloooooong the salt seeeeeeeeaa...”</p><p>The next time the refrain rolled around, Tharkay offered Granby his arm, swinging him about so they might skip in circles around one another as Granby sang. By the third chorus Tharkay was singing, too, and skipping around the room -- and Laurence was rolling his eyes, looking at them in exasperation. <em> Yes.  </em></p><p>They were both of them nearly breathless by the time Granby threw his arms wide, slowing the tempo, and pitched his voice very low to draw out the lines of a verse which had the feel of a conclusion. </p><p>“Nowwwwwwwwwwwww….. let every maaaaaannn toss off his full bumperrrrrrrr...” Granby sang. Tharkay drummed his hands against the back of Laurence’s settee -- and yes, oh <em> yes: </em>that stoic mouth was drawing itself into the familiar moue of reluctant diversion. “Ohhhhhh let every maaaaaan smoke up his full booooooowl…” </p><p>“Huzzah!” Tharkay cried. </p><p>“For weeee will be jollyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, and drooooooooooooown melancholyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy…..” Granby picked the tempo back up for the very last line: “With a health to each jovial and true-hearted soul!  </p><p>“WE’LL --” he prompted, and Tharkay joined in again for the last refrain, coming to pound on the mantel now. </p><p>“<em> RANT! AND! WE’LL! ROAR! </em> LIKE TRUUUUUUUUUE BRITISH SAAAAAILOOOORS….” It really was a delightful song. “ <em> WE’LL! RANT! AND! WE’LL! ROAR! </em> ALL ALOOOOONG THE SALT SEEEEEEAAAAAA…” </p><p>And then -- yes, <em> yes </em> -- as Tharkay hooked his arm around Granby’s to skip in their circle one more time, Laurence joined in for the very last lines, smiling as if despite himself. </p><p>“Untilll we strike soooooundings in the Channel of old Englaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand….. frooooooom Ushant to Scillyyyyyyyyy beeeeeeeeeee thirrrrrrrtyyyyyyy-fiiiiiiiiiiive leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaguuuuuuessssss!” </p><p>“Huzzah! Huzzaaaaah! Huzzaaaaaaaaah!” Tharkay cried once more. Granby collapsed to sprawl before the hearth as Tharkay fell, laughing and breathless, onto the settee next to Laurence -- whose mouth was now twisted as if he were trying very hard not to speak. </p><p>“Say it.” Tharkay pinned him with his stare. “Say it, Will.” </p><p>Laurence sighed. “It’s -- it’s really…  more like thirty-seven.” </p><p>“There he is!” crowed Granby from the floor, throwing up his arms. </p><p>Tharkay bugled into his fists like a herald. “Captainnnnn William Laurence!” </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>He tilted his head toward their guards. “I believe these gentlemen would prefer greatly that we should converse in French.”* </p><p>The weasel pup had not managed to sell them out entirely. </p><p>“Je suis très content de vous rencontrer,” said Temeraire politely. "J'espère que je vous trouve bien?” <em> I am glad to see you -- I hope I find you well? </em> Oh, <em> dearest </em> Temeraire, who had picked up on his tone and used the formal address without skipping a beat. </p><p>Their enemies had accounted for <em> almost </em> everything -- they had used the egg to draw Temeraire, Temeraire to bring Laurence, and Tharkay to keep Laurence trapped -- but they assumed Tharkay the Empire’s man, yes, and Laurence’s bit of fluff solely to that end. So clever, they were -- and yet so very, <em> very </em> stupid, for they had made one very crucial error in judgement: they had let Tharkay see Temeraire. </p><p>It was almost laughable; indeed, he had to choose laughter, else it would be -- rage, burning white-hot and violent. The affliction of emperors: mistaking love for self-interested ambition. </p><p>“It is intolerably unfair. What has Lien done for any of them, or Napoleon; <em> they </em>did not find the cure. Oh! When I think of all those hideous messes that Keynes inflicted upon me; even now I cannot but shudder if I get a smell of bananas, sometimes.”* Oh, how he loved Temeraire. </p><p>“Napoleon, however, had the power of passing it on,” Tharkay pointed out reasonably. “I imagine there are few threats which dragons can feel so immediately as disease; the gift must have commanded gratitude.”* </p><p>“Still, I do not see why any of them should give Napoleon the credit of the cure. He would not have had it to give, if Laurence and I had not given it to him.”* </p><p>Tharkay raised an eyebrow. “Just so. And now you and Captain Laurence are here at the convocation, to be seen in his company; I am sure Napoleon is delighted to be able to present such a portrait of amity to his assembled visitors. The arrangement must have recommended itself to him highly: enough to make it worth letting the Prussian dragons go, and lure you here.”*  </p><p>Iskierka exhaled steam. “So it <em> is </em> all due to you that we are here,” she said irritably. “I might have known.”* Tharkay could not entirely blame her; in fact he was empathizing with Iskierka more and more, lately. </p><p>“Surely no-one would suppose we are here of our own volition.”* He could see the cogs turning in Temeraire’s mind -- no, <em> no, </em> they needed him to focus on planning their escape. </p><p>He had never before tried this with Temeraire -- his and Laurence’s method of decorous double-speak, hiding their meanings beneath surface courtesies. Still -- like captain, like dragon, and Temeraire had always been cleverer than anyone gave him credit for. “I do not expect Napoleon means to give you any opportunity of explaining the situation to his other guests,”* Tharkay said quellingly: <em> we will take care of that --   </em></p><p> -- and <em> yes, </em> oh yes, when Temeraire asked next about Laurence, Tharkay knew that his assurance had landed. “And -- is he well?”* <em> Farewell and adieu… </em></p><p>“His health improves daily.” <em> We’ll! rant! and! we’ll! roar! </em> “His spirits are as well-supported as might be expected.”* Tharkay did not need to say more, and Temeraire <em> did not need to ask whether Laurence should have preferred to be put in prison, or even hanged, sooner than be used in such a fashion; he knew the answer perfectly well.*  </em></p><p>Tharkay examined Temeraire’s mien, hoping against hope that he had managed to convey the severity of their situation -- and yes, he could see that Temeraire had realized that<em> if left to himself long enough, Laurence would </em> certainly <em> find a way to arrange something of the sort; it only fell to him to act, before that should become necessary* </em> -- but <em> would </em> he, without Laurence’s blessing? <em> Please, please…   </em></p><p>Temeraire blinked once, twice. “Will they let you come again?”* <em> How much time do we have?  </em></p><p>Tharkay exhaled -- ohhhh, thank the stars above; thank the mountains and rivers and skies for Temeraire, <em> dearest </em> Temeraire. “I believe I will be permitted to come again next week.”* <em> Perhaps five days, before he breaks.  </em></p><p>“Very well.” Oh, <em> yes, </em>thank the earth below and the fire within, for Temeraire. “Tharkay, will you pray tell Laurence that I beg his pardon, and tell him that I hope he knows how--how highly I value him, and that I should never wish to act in any fashion that would give him cause to doubt my respect and esteem.”* Thank the moon and wind and sea, for Temeraire.</p><p>“I will certainly assure him, if assurances are required.” He lifted one eyebrow, <em> just </em> a bit. “I hope to see you next week, then; although I suppose we must not depend upon it, until the event.”* <em> We will be ready.  </em></p><p>A dismissive wing flick. “Yes, of course.”* Dearest, <em> beloved </em>Temeraire. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Of course, it now fell to Tharkay to persuade the men to go along. “Temeraire is certainly planning something, but as to the details, I cannot speculate, except that he evidently supposed you might feel slighted.”* </p><p>“That tells me nothing,” said Laurence, “unless he means to lose me another ten thousand pounds.”* It was nice to see that he had not been drained of <em> all </em> humor, at least. </p><p>“Had we better try and stop them?” asked Granby. Tharkay rolled his eyes, though not so either of his fellows could see. “You know there is no use hoping that cooler minds will prevail, on their end. The madder the notion, the more sure it is to please Iskierka: I would not depend on her to restrain Temeraire from launching a headlong charge on Paris and trying to bring down the Tuileries.”* It was a touch disheartening, that Granby had so little faith in her. </p><p>Tharkay turned to him, eyebrow cocked. “I cannot see how you mean to do so, unless by betraying their intentions to our gaolers, which will certainly preclude any future chance of escape.” He did not understand, sometimes, how or why certain others did not <em> perceive </em> certain things: they were <em> so </em> clear; they were <em> right there. </em> “You can either trust them, or halt them forever.”*</p><p>“That trust I can hardly deny him.” Thank goodness Laurence had more sense than that, and patience enough to reason it out for Granby while Tharkay went to flex his aching hands before the hearth. “... I do not deny he might overestimate his chances, as judged rationally by a more skeptical eye. But I cannot remove his power of taking action, only because I have no means of approving his course,”* Laurence finished. </p><p>Well, and that was that: Granby would neither gainsay Laurence nor question his judgement outright -- he was too used to following his lead. Tharkay stood, staring into the fire’s glowing heart, and allowed his fellows’ voices to fade into the background. </p><p>After a while, feeling the weight of Laurence’s considering gaze settle upon him once more, Tharkay drew his awareness out of the flames and back into himself, for he already knew what Laurence would say next. </p><p>“If I asked to walk about the grounds, to take the air, the guards would not like to refuse me, I think.”* <em> You see, Temeraire?  </em></p><p>Tharkay lifted his other eyebrow, this time. “Where the dragons can see you? No, I imagine not, when displaying you is indeed the Emperor’s aim.”* <em> Steady breath and a stride which refused to falter: displaying himself before allies and enemies alike…  </em></p><p>“Very well, I will accept that cost, and exchange it for the opportunity, which I hope that my walking the grounds will allow, to try and have a word with Moshueshue...” <em> -- are you certain you wish to go through with this? I find I have committed too much to the endeavor to see it fail now -- </em> “...and afterwards he will have the power of telling the other guests, where I myself cannot, that my presence here is unwilling, and that I do not in the least endorse Napoleon’s designs.”* </p><p>Tharkay looked at Laurence, dear unswerving Laurence, and did not need to say: <em> I will be there, guiding your way.  </em></p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Granby went to bed early; whether out of tact or true need Tharkay did not know, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. </p><p>Laurence was shivering minutely, even sitting before the hearth. He should not be this cold, not inside their comfortable suite -- but Tharkay knew Laurence’s body was being pushed past its limits: he was still wounded, and had barely touched his supper. </p><p>He went to add a few more logs to the fire, stoking it, using the bellows to make it roar. Sparks flew as he piled the wood higher -- the iron poker was heating; he could feel it -- he shoved the sharp point into the bright heart of flame and did not say: <em> burn…   </em></p><p>The noise of the crackling fire now serving as additional insurance against being overheard, he went to sit across from Laurence. The plan was solid, for the most part, but there were yet a few holes in the weave; weaknesses which might be exploited, and they must be addressed. Tharkay picked up the thread of conversation, hours old, knowing Laurence would follow. </p><p>“But if you do?” he asked, and Laurence looked up sharply. “It is a hazard as well to consider before as after meeting it. Napoleon cannot have commanded the attendance of so many dragons -- so many ferals, and dragons of other nations -- only with respect.”* </p><p>Laurence caught on quickly enough. “You think he means to lay some proposal before them, which will make a marked improvement to their condition.”* </p><p>“I can see no other motive that would compel them to listen.”* <em> Be very, very careful, Will -- he has already once succeeded in manipulating your conscience against you: he will for a certainty try it again; we must be prepared. </em>They both knew very well that there was no little merit to Napoleon’s remonstrations regarding their allies’ -- and indeed their country’s -- treatment of dragonkind. </p><p>So Tharkay held Laurence with his regard, as ever, staying with him while he faced this truth, watching him move through those same familiar phases: discomfort, expansion, acceptance. </p><p><em> Dearest </em> Laurence, who had ever and always looked inward rather than lashing out -- but he was <em> so </em> close to fracturing, already; Tharkay did not know whether this might finally break him… <em> no, please no, not him, not Will… </em>he softened his gaze, offering what strength he could to those wavering eyes. </p><p>Laurence’s voice started off very quiet. “But I have this to armor me against Napoleon’s most pleasant aims -- that all he does has ever been for his own selfish vainglory.” A little firmer, now: “He wishes to be loved by the dragons of France not for their sake, but for his.” --<em> the charge laid upon me by his love -- </em> oh yes, oh <em> please… </em>   “He has had no hesitation in spilling their blood, and the blood of his soldiers, to make himself a perfect tyrant, bestriding the world unopposed.” -- <em> all those men, all those lives -- </em> “He cannot suffer an equal -- and so he cannot be suffered.” Yes, <em> yes -- </em> Laurence was breathing <em> , </em> Laurence was <em> fighting, </em> Laurence was <em> here… </em> “His means, his immediate acts, may be noble; his ends are less so, and he has shown himself insensible to the wreck and horror of war.”*</p><p>Something caught in his throat -- <em> today, Laurence, you have made me proud -- </em> oh, <em> surely </em> this feeling was love: there could be no other name for it. </p><p>Tharkay swallowed it down, sealed it away; there were more pressing matters at hand. <em> I would not be another reason for you to hate yourself, Will, even at the cost of my life; I would die before becoming your liability… </em>He did not know how he might speak of it, but neither could he let it go by unaddressed.</p><p>“I am satisfied, except on one point.” There would be no more secrets between them, after this: no more hiding from the truth. “I know how greatly you have enjoyed Napoleon’s generous attentions,” he began, ever reliant on that sardonic humor, “but you must know I would never have desired, or still less urged you to invite them, for my sake.”*</p><p>Laurence’s response was immediate and vehement, as if he were insulted: “I hope that I would not require <em> urging </em>, to undertake any service on your behalf.”* </p><p>Oh, he could not <em> breathe… </em> The fire was crackling, the shadows were dancing, and Laurence had said <em> I hope that I would not require urging…  </em></p><p>...before adding, more softly: “In any case, we have had too much evidence of Napoleon’s desire to make a parade of me to suppose that his attentions would have been long delayed, and he can have wanted neither excuse nor consent to set about them, since I have given him neither.”*  </p><p>He could not allow -- no, <em> no, </em> absolutely <em> not -- </em> “I would prefer you not to permit any such consideration to weigh with you again.” <em> Do not let them use me to make you their tool. </em> “I undertook the hazards of my, shall we say, <em> occupation </em> , freely and with full knowledge of the consequences, were I ever identified to the enemy.”* <em> I had written the letter; I had made peace with my choices, we -- we cannot let them do this to us, we cannot -- I will not have this be picked apart, twisted and broken, made out to be inferior…   </em></p><p>“That cannot make me less inclined to avert those consequences,”* said Laurence, looking him full in the face without a trace of shame or apology. </p><p>Tharkay <em>tried</em> to pin Laurence with his stare, he <em>did</em> -- but the sea was too deep; the light was shining clear through Laurence’s eyes -- he was falling forward, forward into sparkling sky… truths like blazing stones, like sinking stars: Laurence had written to the Emperor; Laurence had thrown over his pride; Laurence had chosen <em>him… </em>Laurence had chosen him, and having been made sensible to the trap which had been sprung upon him in so doing, Laurence did not regret his choice. </p><p>Tharkay bowed his head to stare at his hands: he must find a way, somehow, to swallow these truths, these stones, these stars. They were -- sticking in his throat, painful; the tide was rising, but he must, he <em> must not </em> allow it to spill over; he must find a way to contain it -- <em> breathe, breathe, breathe like the waves. </em> In and out, in and out -- he would not weep, he <em> would not weep -- </em> he could do this; he <em> must </em>do this; he could seal up the well, for now… </p><p>When Tharkay looked up again, Laurence’s gaze was on him, soft and gentle.  His expression was open, honest -- that of a man who, having made a decision according to his conscience, had likewise made peace with its sequelae… <em> no, </em> he could not think about it, not now, not here. <em> Breathe.  </em></p><p>Tharkay inhaled, and from a safely ironic distance raised an eyebrow and dipped his head a little, acknowledging the point as if it were a drawing-room debate and not a fundamental breach in his understanding of his place in the cosmos. </p><p>After holding his gaze a moment longer, Laurence continued. “But you may be easy. If I have given Napoleon the power of making me appear his friend, I now mean to make him as well as his guests the best proofs to the contrary that I can,” -- and then Laurence gave him a <em> look </em>, raising his eyebrow in turn, “-- and I know you will not speak to stop me.”* </p><p>“Indeed not.” They took risks <em> together, </em> always. “I am only sorry to have been unveiled so inconveniently.”* <em> Oh, </em>there it was again -- that anger burning through him, making his lip curl, his teeth clench: a long-absent friend. </p><p>Perhaps Laurence recognized the heat rising in him, for he ventured to ask a rare question: “Do you know how it may have come about?”* </p><p>“A reward for success, I imagine.” And hadn’t Sara <em> warned </em> him? She would be insufferable, after this. Tharkay dropped his voice still lower, beneath the flames. “My latest report on the political situation in the Porte may have been excessively useful: the Sultan remains Napoleon’s ally, and is unlikely to shift his position so long as we are aligned with Russia, but I discovered that a significant vezir was susceptible to persuasion. The Chinese legions we hope for will not encounter any direct opposition, if they come overland.”* </p><p>-- <em> we shall have to resign ourselves to losing that time, and hope that it does not tip the balance one way or the other -- let us not commit to failure just yet; I will make some inquiries --  </em></p><p>“That is an excellent piece of news indeed.” Laurence was looking at him like <em> that, </em> and <em> oh </em> -- <em> leaves in the wind, drifting eucalyptus -- </em> as ever and always, it felt good to be seen. “But how should it have exposed you?”* </p><p>“I imagine the report has circulated a little too widely for my health.” Oh yes, Sara would be absolutely <em> insufferable, </em>for it seemed Ambrose had put two and two together, after all. “It so happens that one of my beloved cousins has a minor sinecure, somewhere or other under the Navy Board.”* </p><p>“Good God, and you suppose him to have turned traitor?”* </p><p>“Oh, I am sure he would call it no such thing.” <em> No-one else holds their oaths as you do, Will. </em> “I doubt that the report was sold along with my name -- which explains M. Fouché’s eagerness to discuss the operation with me.” -- <em> how did you sneak past our borders? -- </em> no, <em> no, </em> stay here, stay <em> here… </em> he inhaled, and failed to keep himself from saying, “No, I am sure dear Ambrose merely found it an irresistible opportunity to be rid of me and my inconvenient attempts to assert my right to my patrimony, and at a profit no less.”* He closed his eyes -- more and more of his bitter thoughts were escaping, these days. That <em> damned -- </em> he didn’t even <em> want </em> the thing, hadn’t for <em> years, </em>had kept the suit going solely so that Whitehall might think they had some leverage over him; for it to now be his undoing was a particular kind of cruel. </p><p>“I am sorry to lose the power of disappointing your cousin’s designs.” <em> Ha -- I will make a wit of you yet, William Laurence. </em> “I hope, Tenzing, you know that I wish I hazarded my safety equally with yours.”* Dearest Laurence, who did not say <em> do not take risks </em> but rather <em> I wish this we could take this risk together.  </em></p><p>“Oh, permit me to comfort you on that score.” Tharkay smiled wryly: as ever between them, the lighter the tone, the more emphatic the message. “Napoleon does not seem to me to care much for being balked. When you have gone romping around his carefully assembled guests, and done your best to overturn his remarkable conclave, I have every hope of your provoking him to all the outward displays of wrath that you might wish.” Raising one eyebrow, he took a breath, met Laurence’s sea-sky gaze, and did not falter. “You are as likely to be executed as I am.”* He said it with his usual humor, knowing Laurence would hear the words underneath: <em> there is nothing I will not do to ensure your safety, as you have mine.  </em></p><p>It was Laurence’s turn to look down at his hands, squinting against the bright firelight, shoulders quaking. Tharkay shifted, just the slightest bit, so that his shadow fell across Laurence’s face, and slid his foot forward under the table to rest against Laurence’s ankle. </p><p>Laurence huffed: not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “I think,” he said, raising his head once more, “I might regret the decision we made, that last night in Sydney.” </p><p>Laurence’s eyes were <em> skittering, </em> as if unable to focus on anything at all -- a sure tell that he was exhausted beyond measure. His face was white as cheese: shot through with blue veins, and crumbling; <em> oh, </em> Tharkay had not seen him this bad since the mountains just after his rescue, when Laurence had been freshly concussed. </p><p>How -- how dare he. How <em> dare </em> he. </p><p>Tharkay wanted to shatter Bonaparte’s entire being with divine wind; he wanted to pull Laurence into his lap and rock him: kissing his forehead, weeping into his hair. He wanted to tear the world apart. </p><p>Catching Laurence’s eye, he spread his fingers wide on the table, not quite reaching for him. “‘World enough, and time.’” It was as it had ever been: <em> nothing to cover me, no place to rest -- </em>and though their fires were burning low, they at least were here together. He looked into those lovely eyes and clenched his hand into a fist: a promise. “‘We will make him run.’” </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>*** </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When the roof exploded into flame, Tharkay honestly thought -- just for the barest, briefest flicker of a moment -- that he had made it happen. </p><p>Of course, that was preposterous; and yet still he could not help but feel that his prayers had been answered, somehow. He delighted in its heat -- <em> burn, yes, burn </em> -- “I will take being singed over choking,”* he said, laughing even as they risked themselves to save their enemy’s son; gleeful as he drew Granby and Laurence away from the ensuing chaos, down the hall and out the window -- he <em> relished </em> the fire, for at last, at <em> last, </em>they had wrought an answering piece of destruction; the world outside finally matched the conflagration at his core. It was not nearly enough, no, but it was a start. </p><p>And as the three of them ran through the darkness, shouting for Temeraire, he took one last look at Napoleon’s palace and did not say: <em> burn.  </em></p><p><br/>
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</p><p>It was not until they were truly and safely away that Tharkay, huddled with Granby and Laurence in Iskierka's claws, allowed himself to sing. “Farewell and adieuuuuuuu, you sheep-biting tyrant,” he intoned. “Farewell and adieuuuuuu, and a curse on your naaame….” </p><p>Granby picked it up. “For we’ve received orders for to fly for old England…” </p><p>“...and we hope, in a short time, to see you again.” Laurence said it quietly -- not a threat: a promise. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Junichiro:<br/>Laurence: i’m not mad, i’m just disappointed<br/>Tharkay: don’t sleep kid </p><p>Napoleon: nope you definitely can’t see Laurence, can’t have you conspiring<br/>Temeraire: that’s ok, Tharkay’s here<br/>Temeraire: lol actually it’s probably better that the smart dad is coming anyway tbh </p><p>me, rereading League of Dragons: holy SHIT Tharkay project managed that entire thing start to finish </p><p> </p><p>References: </p><p>Ghuge, Anushka. "Mudras used in kathak while dancing and its meaning." https://anushkaghuge.home.blog/2018/08/22/mudras-used-in-kathak-while-dancing-and-its-meaning/. 22 Aug 2018. Accessed October 2020. </p><p> </p><p>No specific reference for the song Spanish Ladies other than all of the years of my adolescence spent at the Renaissance Faire, which is why my lyrics are different from the ones in the versions available on Youtube etc. The in-story origin of the song is kinda-sorta history canon in that it's a super old song so nobody *actually* knows where it started, but contextual factors point to the Napoleonic wars. </p><p> </p><p>With gratitude,<br/>nb***</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Explication</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>To anyone who has been reading this as it was posted: I would say something to you, on matters as they stand between us.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <b>Explanation ; </b>
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  <strong>or, </strong>
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  <strong>nb breaks the fourth wall</strong>
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  <strong>*** </strong>
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  <span>HEyyy so uh… </span>
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  <span>What I had originally intended was for The Compass to be a two-part series, and for Anchor of Stars to take us through the end. </span>
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  <span>But! The story is now telling me otherwise, so I’m pinching this one off to float free into the world because Part 2 is complete as is. </span>
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  <span>(Basically what happened is that I was going to try to have a whole author’s note direction thing here where I told people like “hey go read up through chapter XX of Array of Currents before proceeding” and then at chapter XX+1 of Array of Currents have a note like “ok NOW go back and start at chapter 12 of Anchor of Stars…” </span>
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  <span>And then I realized that… there’s a much easier fix for that, though it involves me publicly restructuring the series a little bit, lol. Wish I’d seen this coming, but I only experience time in one direction sooo here we are.)</span>
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  <span>In sum: Parts 1 and 2 are now toddling on their own, Part 3 is in-progress, and Part 4 is en route. </span>
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  <span>I’m sorry for any distress this causes -- and also, I’m not sorry to be revising the plan in order to write more story; we’ll get there together, I promise. </span>
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  <span>With that same ol’ gratitude, </span>
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  <span>nb***</span>
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  <span>(they + he + she) </span>
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  <span>***</span>
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